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This  book  may  be  kept  out  TWO  WEEKS 
ONLY,  and  is  subject  to  a  fine  of  FIVE 
CENTS  a  day  thereafter.  It  is  due  on  the 
day  indicated  below: 


WORKS.  19  vols.,  uniform,  i6mo,  with  frontispiece,  gilt 
top. 

Wakk-Robin. 

Winter  Sunshine. 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honey. 

Frbsh  Fields. 

Indoor  Studies. 

Birds  and  Poets,  with  Other  Papers. 

Pepacton,  and  Other  Sketches. 

Signs  and  Seasons. 

RiVERBY. 

Whitman  :  A  Study. 

The  Light  of  Day. 

Literary  Values. 

Far  and  Near. 

Ways  of  Nature. 

Leaf  and  Tendril. 

Time  and  Change. 

The  Summit  of  the  Years. 

The  Breath  of  Life. 

Under  the  Applb-Trees. 

Field  and  Study. 

FIELD  AND  STUDY.     Riverside  Edition. 

UNDER  THE  APPLE-TREES.     Riverside  Edition. 

THE  BREATH  OF  LIFE.     Riverside  Edition. 

THE  SUMMIT  OF  THE  YEARS.     Riverside  Edition. 

TIME   AND   CHANGE.     Riverside  Edition. 

LEAF   AND   TENDRIL.     Riverside  Edition. 

\Nk^%   OF   NATURE.     Riverside  Edition. 

FAR    AND    NEAR.     Riverside  Edition. 

LITERARY  VALUES.     Riverside  Edition. 

THE    LIGHT   OF   DAY.     Riverside  Edition. 

WHITMAN:   A  Study.     Riverside  Edition. 

A  YEAR  IN  THE  FIELDS.  Selections  appropriate 
to  each  season  of  the  year,  from  the  writings  of  John 
Burroughs.  Illustrated  from  Photographs  by  Clif- 
ton Johnson. 

IN  THE  CATSKILLS.  Illustrated  from  Photographs 
by  Clifton  Johnson. 

CAMPING  AND  TRAMPING  WITH  ROOSEVELT. 
Illustrated  from  Photographs. 

BIRD   AND    BOUGH.     Poems, 

WINTER   SUNSHINE.     Cambridge  Classics  Series. 

WAKE- ROBIN.     Riverside  A Idine  Series. 

SQUIRRELS  AND  OTHER  FUR-BEARERS.  Illus- 
trated. 

BIRD   STORIES   FROM    BURROUGHS.     Illustrated. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 


'% 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 


BY 


JOHN  BURROUGHS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,   1919,   BY  JOHN  BURROUGHS 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

Part  I:  Afield 

I.  The  Spring  Bird  Procession    ....  3 

II.  Nature  Lore 27 

III.  The  Familiar  Birds 53 

IV.  Fuss  AND  Feathers 77 

V.  The  Songs  of  Birds 89 

VI.  Orchard  Secrets 102 

VII.  Nature  in  Little 112 

Vni.  The  Insect  Mind    .      .      .      .      .      .      .  129 

IX.  A  Clever  Beastie 140 

X.  Phases  of  Animal  Life       .      .      .      .      ,152 

XL  Each  After  Its  Kind 158 

XII.  The  Pleasures  of  Science       .      .      .      .174 

XIII.  New  Gleanings  in  Old  Fields       .      .      .193 

I.  Live  Natural  History        .      .      .  193 

11.  The  Barn  Swallow      ....  198 

III.  Insects 201 

IV.  The  Dog 205 

V.  Wood  Waifs 206 

VI.  An  Interesting  Plant        .      .      .  210 
VII.  Nature  Near  Home      .      .      .      .213 

Part  II:  Study  Notes 

I.  Literature 221 

II.  Religion 241 


CONTENTS 

in.  Science 252 

IV.  Evolution 273 

V.  Nature  and  Natural  History    ....  289 

VI.  Miscellaneous  Notes 320 

Index 331 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

Parti 
AFIELD 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

Part  I:  Afield 

I 

THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

I 

ONE  of  the  new  pleasures  of  country  life  when 
one  has  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  birds  is 
to  witness  the  northward  bird  procession  as  it  passes 
or  tarries  with  us  in  the  spring  —  a  procession  which 
lasts  from  April  till  June  and  has  some  new  feature 
daily. 

The  migrating  wild  creatures,  whether  birds  or 
beasts,  always  arrest  the  attention.  They  seem  to  link 
up  animal  life  with  the  great  currents  of  the  globe. 
It  is  moving  day  on  a  continental  scale.  It  is  the 
call  of  the  primal  instinct  to  increase  and  multiply, 
suddenly  setting  in  motion  whole  tribes  and  races. 
The  first  phoebe-bird,  the  first  song  sparrow,  the  first 
robin  or  bluebird  in  March  or  early  April,  is  like  the 
first  ripple  of  the  rising  tide  on  the  shore. 

In  my  boyhood  the  vast  armies  of  the  passenger 
pigeons  were  one  of  the  most  notable  spring  tokens. 
Often  late  in  March,  or  early  in  April,  the  naked 
beechwoods    would    suddenly    become    blue   with 

S 

D.   H.   HILL  LIBRARY 
North  Carolina  State  Collafl* 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

them,  and  vocal  with  their  soft,  childlike  calls;  or 
all  day  the  sky  would  be  streaked  with  the  long 
lines  or  dense  masses  of  the  moving  armies.  The  last 
great  flight  of  them  that  I  ever  beheld  was  on  the 
10th  of  April,  1875,  when,  for  the  greater  part  of  the 
day,  one  could  not  at  any  moment  look  skyward 
above  the  Hudson  River  Valley  without  seeing 
several  flocks,  great  and  small,  of  the  migrating 
birds.  But  that  spectacle  was  never  repeated  as  it 
had  been  for  generations  before.  The  pigeons  never 
came  back.  Death  and  destruction,  in  the  shape  of 
the  greed  and  cupidity  of  man,  were  on  their  trail. 
The  hosts  were  pursued  from  State  to  State  by  pro- 
fessional pot-hunters  and  netters,  and  the  numbers 
so  reduced,  and  their  flocking  instinct  so  disorgan- 
ized, that  their  vast  migrating  bands  disappeared, 
and  they  were  seen  only  in  loosely  scattered  and 
diminishing  flocks  in  different  parts  of  the  West 
during  the  remainder  of  the  century.  A  friend  of 
mine  shot  a  few  in  Indiana  in  the  early  eighties,  and 
scattered  bands  of  them  have  occasionally  been  re- 
ported, here  and  there,  up  to  within  a  few  years.  The 
last  time  that  my  eyes  beheld  a  passenger  pigeon 
was  in  the  fall  of  1876  when  I  was  out  for  grouse. 
I  saw  a  solitary  cock  sitting  in  a  tree.  I  killed  it, 
little  dreaming  that,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  I  was 
killing  the  last  pigeon. 

What  man  now  in  his  old  age  who  witnessed  in 
youth  that  spring  or  fall  festival  and  migration  of 

4 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

the  passenger  pigeons  would  not  hail  it  as  one  of  the 
gladdest  hours  of  his  Hfe  if  he  could  be  permitted  to 
witness  it  once  more?  It  was  such  a  spectacle  of 
bounty,  of  joyous,  copious  animal  life,  of  fertility  in 
the  air  and  in  the  wilderness,  as  to  make  the  heart 
glad.  I  have  seen  the  fields  and  woods  fairly  inun- 
dated for  a  day  or  two  with  these  fluttering,  piping, 
blue-and-white  hosts.  The  very  air  at  times  seemed 
suddenly  to  turn  to  pigeons. 

One  May  evening  recently,  near  sundown,  as  I 
sat  in  my  summer-house  here  in  the  Hudson  Valley, 
I  saw  a  long,  curved  line  of  migrating  fowl  high  in 
the  air,  moving  with  great  speed  northward,  and  for 
a  moment  I  felt  the  old  thrill  that  I  used  to  experi- 
ence on  beholding  the  pigeons.  Fifty  years  ago  I 
should  have  felt  sure  that  they  were  pigeons;  but 
they  were  only  ducks.  A  more  intense  scrutiny 
failed  to  reveal  the  sharp,  arrow-like  effect  of  a 
swiftly  moving  flock  of  pigeons.  The  rounder, 
bottle-shaped  bodies  of  the  ducks  also  became  ap- 
parent. But  migrating  ducks  are  a  pleasing  spec- 
tacle, and  when,  a  little  later,  a  line  of  geese  came 
into  my  field  of  vision,  and  re-formed  and  trimmed 
their  ranks  there  against  the  rosy  sky  above  me, 
and  drove  northward  with  their  masterly  flight, 
there  was  no  suggestion  of  the  barnyard  or  farm 
pond  up  there. 

**  Whither,  midst  falHng  dew. 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 

5 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way?" 

Bryant,  by  the  way,  handled  natural  subjects  in  a 
large,  free,  simple  way,  which  our  younger  poets 
never  attained. 

When  one  is  fortunate  enough  to  see  a  line  of 
swans  etched  upon  the  sky  near  sunset,  a  mile  or 
more  high,  as  has  been  my  luck  but  twice  in  my  life, 
one  has  seen  something  he  will  not  soon  forget. 

The  northward  movement  of  the  smaller  bodies 
—  the  warblers  and  finches  and  thrushes  —  gives 
one  pleasure  of  a  different  kind,  the  pleasure  of 
rare  and  distinguished  visitors  who  tarry  for  a  few 
hours  or  a  few  days,  enlivening  the  groves  and  or- 
chards and  garden  borders,  and  then  pass  on.  Deli- 
cacy of  color,  grace  of  form,  animation  of  move- 
ment, and  often  snatches  of  song,  and  elusive  notes 
and  calls,  advise  the  bird-lover  that  the  fairy 
procession  is  arriving.  Tiny  guests  from  Central 
and  South  America  drop  out  of  the  sky  like  flowers 
borne  by  the  night  winds,  and  give  unwonted  inter- 
est to  our  tree-tops  and  roadside  hedges.  The  ruby- 
crowned  kinglet  heralds  the  approach  of  the  pro- 
cession, morning  after  morning,  by  sounding  his 
elfin  bugle  in  the  evergreens. 

The  migrating  thrushes  in  passing  are  much  more 
chary  of  their  songs,  although  the  hermit,  the  veery, 
and  the  olive-backed  may  occasionally  be  heard. 
I  have  even  heard  the  northern  water-thrush  sing 

6 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

briefly  in  my  currant-patch.  The  bobolink  begins  to 
burst  out  in  sudden  snatches  of  song,  high  in  air,  as 
he  nears  his  northern  haunts.  I  have  often  in  May 
heard  the  black-poll  warbler  deliver  his  fine  strain, 
Hke  that  of  some  ticking  insect,  but  have  never 
heard  the  bay-breasted  nor  the  speckled  Canada 
during  migration.  None  of  these  birds  sing  or  nest 
in  the  tropical  countries  where  they  pass  more  than 
half  the  year.  They  are  like  exiles  there;  the  joy 
and  color  fade  out  of  their  lives  in  the  land  of  color 
and  luxuriance.  The  brilliant  tints  come  to  their  plu- 
mage, and  the  songs  to  their  hearts,  only  when  the 
breeding  impulse  sends  them  to  their  brief  north- 
ern homes.  Tennyson  makes  his  swallow  say,  — 

*'  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
While  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made." 

It  is  highly  probable,  if  not  certain,  that  the 
matches  made  in  the  North  endure  but  for  a  season, 
and  that  new  mates  are  chosen  each  spring.  The 
males  of  most  species  come  a  few  days  in  advance 
of  the  females,  being,  I  suppose,  supercharged  with 
the  breeding  impulse. 

That  birds  have  a  sense  of  home  and  return  in 
most  cases  to  their  old  haunts,  is  quite  certain.  But 
whether  both  sexes  do  this,  or  only  the  males,  I 
have  no  proof.  But  I  have  proof  which  I  consider 
positive  that  the  male  song  sparrow  returns,  and 
there  is  pretty  good  evidence  that  the  same  thing 

7 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

IS  true  of  several,  probably  of  most,  other  species. 
A  friend  of  mine  has  a  summer  home  in  one  of  the 
more  secluded  valleys  of  the  Catskills,  and  every 
June  for  three  years  a  pair  of  catbirds  have  nested 
near  the  house;  and  every  day,  many  times,  one  or 
both  birds  come  to  the  dining-room  window,  for 
sweet  butter.  Very  soon  after  their  arrival  they  ap- 
pear at  the  window,  shy  at  first,  but  soon  becoming 
so  tame  that  they  approach  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
mistress  of  the  house.  They  light  on  the  chairbacks 
and  sometimes  even  hop  on  the  table,  taking  the 
butter  from  the  fork  held  by  the  mistress.  Their 
behavior  now  is  very  convincing  that  one  or  both 
have  been  at  the  window  for  butter  in  previous 
years. 

Let  me  quote  a  page  or  two  from  my  notebook, 
under  date  of  May  25 :  — 

Walked  down  through  the  fields  and  woods  to  the  river, 
and  then  along  the  wooded  banks  toward  home. 

Redstarts  here  and  there  in  the  woods,  going  through 
their  pretty  gymnastics.  None  of  our  insect-feeders  known 
to  me  so  engage  the  eye.  The  flashes  of  color,  and  the 
acrobatic  feats  —  how  they  set  each  other  off !  It  is  all 
so  much  like  a  premeditated  display,  or  a  circus,  or  an 
operatic  performance,  that  one  is  surprised  to  find  a 
solitary  bird  in  the  woods  so  intent  upon  it.  Every  move- 
ment is  accompanied  by  its  own  feathered  display.  The 
tail,  with  its  bands  of  black  and  orange,  is  as  active  in 
opening  and  shutting  as  a  lady's  fan  at  the  opera  signal- 
ing to  her  lover;  the  wings  unfold,  or  droop,  and  second 

8 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

the  sensitive  tail,  and  the  whole  behavior  of  the  bird 
makes  him  about  the  prettiest  actor  in  the  little  fly- 
catching  drama  of  the  season.  This  behavior  would  sug- 
gest that  the  bird  feeds  upon  a  particular  kind  of  insect; 
at  all  times  and  places  it  is  engaged  in  the  same  striking 
ocrobatic  feats;  just  as  the  black  and  white  creeping  war- 
ijler  is  always  busy  in  the  hunt  for  some  minute  insect  on 
Ihe  trunks  of  trees. 


I  recall  several  of  our  insect-feeders  each  of 
which  seems  to  have  its  own  insect  province.  The 
Kentucky  warbler,  where  I  have  known  it  on  the 
Potomac,  fed  for  the  most  part  on  insects  which  it 
gathered  from  the  under  side  of  the  leaves  of  certain 
plants  near  the  ground.  Hence  it  is  classed  among 
the  ground  warblers,  like  the  Maryland  yellow- 
throat.  The  red-eyed  vireo  feeds  largely  on  the  in- 
sects which  hide  on  the  under  side  of  leaves  in  the 
tree-tops. 

When  the  oriole  first  comes  in  May,  he  is  very 
busy  searching  into  the  heart  of  the  apple-tree 
bloom  for  some  small  insect.  I  have  seen  Wilson*s 
black-capped  warbler  doing  the  same  thing.  I  have 
seen  a  score  or  more  of  myrtle  warblers  very  active 
amid  the  bushes  and  trees  along  a  stream,  snapping 
up  some  slow-moving  gauzy  insect  drifting  about 
there.  They  often  festoon  the  stream  with  their 
curving  and  looping  lines  of  blue  and  black  and 
yellow. 

The  feeding-ground  of  one  bird  is  often  an  empty 

9 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

larder  to  another  kind.  I  saw  a  pretty  illustration  of 
this  fact  yesterday.  On  the  wide,  smooth  space, 
graded  with  sharp  gravel  in  front  of  my  neighbor's 
boathouse,  there  were  three  Blackburnian  war- 
blers, one  male  and  two  females,  very  much  ab- 
sorbed in  hurrying  about  over  the  gray  surface, 
picking  up  some  tiny  insects  which  were  invisible 
to  my  eye.  How  intent  and  eager  they  were!  A  nut- 
hatch came  down  the  trunk  of  the  elm  and  eyed 
them  closely;  then  took  to  the  ground  and  followed 
them  about  for  a  moment.  But  evidently  he  could 
not  make  out  what  the  table  was  spread  with,  as, 
after  a  few  seconds,  he  flew  back  to  the  tree  and 
went  on  with  his  own  quest  of  food.  But  the  nut- 
hatches will  follow  the  downy  woodpeckers  through 
the  trees,  and  the  chickadees  follow  the  nuthatches, 
and  the  brown  creepers  follow  the  chickadees,  and 
each  kind  appears  to  find  the  food  it  is  looking  for. 
Every  man  to  his  taste,  and  every  bird  to  the  food 
that  its  beak  indicates. 

I  have  no  idea  as  to  the  kind  of  food  that  inva- 
riably draws  the  male  scarlet  tanager  to  the  ground 
in  the  ploughed  fields  at  this  season;  but  there  they 
are  in  pairs  or  triplets,  slowly  looking  over  the  brown 
soil  and  visible  from  afar.  Yesterday  I  came  upon 
two  on  the  ground  at  a  wettish  place  in  the  woods, 
demurely  looking  about  them.  How  they  fairly 
warmed  the  eye  amid  their  dull  and  neutral  sur- 
roundings ! 

10 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

Season  after  season,  all  over  the  country,  the 
spectacle  of  scarlet  tanagers  inspecting  the  ground 
in  ploughed  fields  recurs. 

This  season  an  unusual  number  of  male  rose- 
breasted  grosbeaks  have  frequented  the  ground  in 
my  vineyards  at  the  same  time.  Their  black-and- 
white  plumage,  with  an  occasional  glimpse  of  their 
rose-colored  breasts,  makes  them  very  noticeable, 
but  not  so  conspicuous  as  the  tanagers.  But  their 
rich,  mellow  warblings  from  the  tree-tops  more  than 
make  up  to  the  ear  what  the  eye  misses.  Strange  to 
say,  in  my  boyhood  I  never  saw  or  recognized  this 
bird,  and  few  country  or  farm  people,  I  think,  ever 
discriminate  it.  Its  song  is  like  that  of  the  robin 
much  softened  and  rounded  and  more  finely  modu- 
lated, contrasting  in  this  respect  with  the  harder 
and  more  midsummery  strain  of  the  tanager.  The 
heavy  beak  of  the  bird  gives  him  a  somewhat 
Hebraic  look. 

II 

That  birds  of  a  feather  flock  together,  even  in 
migration,  is  evident  enough  every  spring.  When 
in  the  morning  you  see  one  of  a  kind,  you  may  con- 
fidently look  for  many  more.  When,  in  early  May, 
I  see  one  myrtle  warbler,  I  presently  see  dozens  of 
them  in  the  trees  and  bushes  all  about  me ;  or,  if  I 
see  one  yellow  redpoll  on  the  ground,  with  its  sharp 
chirp  and  nervous  behavior,  I  look  for  more.  Yes- 

11 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

terday,  out  of  the  kitchen  window,  I  saw  three 
speckled  Canada  warblers  on  the  ground  in  the 
garden.  How  choice  and  rare  they  looked  on  the 
dull  surface !  In  my  neighbor's  garden  or  dooryard 
I  should  probably  have  seen  more  of  them,  and 
in  his  trees  and  shrubbery  as  many  magnolia  and 
bay-breasted  and  black-throated  blue  warblers  as 
in  my  own;  and  about  his  neighbor's  place,  and 
his,  and  his,  throughout  the  township,  and  on  west 
throughout  the  county,  and  throughout  the  State, 
and  the  adjoining  State,  on  west  to  the  Missis- 
sippi and  beyond,  I  should  have  found  in  every 
bushy  tangle  and  roadside  and  orchard  and  grove 
and  wood  and  brookside,  the  same  advancing  line 
of  migrating  birds  —  warblers,  flycatchers,  finches, 
thrushes,  sparrows,  and  so  on  —  that  I  found  here. 
I  should  have  found  high-holes  calling  and  drum- 
ming, robins  and  phoebes  nesting,  swallows  skim- 
ming, orioles  piping,  oven-birds  demurely  tripping 
over  the  leaves  in  the  woods,  tanagers  and  gros- 
beaks in  the  ploughed  fields,  purple  finches  in  the 
cherry-trees,  and  white-throats  and  white-crowned 
sparrows  in  the  hedges. 

One  sees  the  passing  bird  procession  in  his  own 
grounds  and  neighborhood  without  pausing  to  think 
that  in  every  man's  grounds  and  in  every  neigh- 
borhood throughout  the  State,  and  throughout  a 
long,  broad  belt  of  States,  about  several  millions 
of  homes,  and  over  several  millions  of  farms,  the 

12 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

same  flood-tide  of  bird-life  is  creeping  and  eddying 
or  sweeping  over  the  land.  When  the  mating  or 
nesting  high-holes  are  awakening  you  in  the  early 
morning  by  their  insistent  calling  and  drumming  on 
your  metal  roof  or  gutters  or  ridge-boards,  they  are 
doing  the  same  to  your  neighbors  near  by,  and  to 
your  fellow  countrymen  fifty,  a  hundred,  a  thou- 
sand miles  away.  Think  of  the  myriads  of  door- 
yards  where  the  "chippies"  are  just  arriving;  of 
the  blooming  orchards  where  the  passing  many- 
colored  warblers  are  eagerly  inspecting  the  buds 
and  leaves ;  of  the  woods  and  woody  streams  where 
the  oven-birds  and  water-thrushes  are  searching  out 
their  old  haunts;  of  the  secluded  bushy  fields  and 
tangles  where  the  chewinks,  the  brown  thrashers, 
the  chats,  the  catbirds,  are  once  more  preparing 
to  begin  life  anew  —  think  of  all  this  and  more,  and 
you  may  get  some  idea  of  the  extent  and  importance 
of  our  bird-life. 

I  fancy  that  on  almost  any  day  in  mid-May  the 
flickers  are  drilling  their  holes  into  a  million  or  more 
decayed  trees  between  the  Hudson  and  the  Mis- 
sissippi; that  any  day  a  month  earlier  the  phoebes 
are  starting  their  nests  under  a  million  or  more 
woodsheds  or  bridges  or  overhanging  rocks;  that 
several  millions  of  robins  are  carrying  mud  and 
straws  to  sheltered  projections  about  buildings,  or 
to  the  big  forked  branches  in  the  orchards. 

When  in  my  walk  one  day  in  April,  through  an 

13 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

old  cedar  lane,  I  found  a  mourning  dove's  nest  on 
the  top  of  an  old  stone  wall,  —  the  only  one  I  ever 
found  in  such  a  position,  —  I  wondered  how  many 
mourning  doves  throughout  the  breadth  and  length 
of  the  land  had  built  or  were  then  building  their 
nests  on  stone  walls  or  on  rocks. 

Considering  the  enormous  number  of  birds  of  all 
species  that  flood  the  continent  at  this  season,  as  if 
some  dike  or  barrier  south  of  us  had  suddenly  given 
way,  one  wonders  where  they  could  all  have  been 
pent  up  during  the  winter.  Mexico  and  Central  and 
South  America  have  their  own  bird  populations 
the  seasons  through;  and  with  the  addition  of  the 
hosts  from  this  country,  it  seems  as  if  those  lands 
must  have  literally  swarmed  with  birds,  and  that 
the  food  question  (as  wath  us)  must  have  been 
pressing.  Of  course,  a  great  many  of  our  birds  — 
such  as  sparrows,  robins,  blackbirds,  meadowlarks, 
jays,  and  chewinks  —  spend  the  winter  in  the 
Southern  States,  but  many  more  —  warblers, 
swallows,  swifts,  hummers,  orioles,  tanagers, 
cuckoos,  flycatchers,  vireos,  and  others  —  seek  out 
the  equatorial  region. 

Ill 

The  ever-memorable  war  spring  of  1917  was  very 
backward,  —  about  two  weeks  later  than  the  aver- 
age, —  very  cold,  and  very  wet.  Few  fruit-trees 
bloomed  before  the  20th  of  May;  then  they  all 

14 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

bloomed  together:  cherry,  pear,  peach,  apple,  all 
held  back  till  they  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Pink 
peach-orchards  and  white  apple-orchards  at  the 
same  time  and  place  made  an  unusual  spectacle. 

The  cold,  wet  w^eather,  of  course,  held  up  the  bird 
procession  also.  The  warblers  and  other  migrants 
lingered  and  accumulated.  The  question  of  food  be- 
came a  very  serious  one  with  all  the  insect-eaters. 
The  insects  did  not  hatch,  or,  if  they  did,  they 
kept  very  close  to  cover.  The  warblers,  driven  from 
the  trees,  took  to  the  ground.  It  was  an  unusual 
spectacle  to  see  these  delicate  and  many-colored 
spirits  of  the  air  and  of  the  tree-tops  hopping 
about  amid  the  clods  and  the  rubbish,  searching  for 
something  they  could  eat.  They  were  like  jewels 
in  the  gutter,  or  flowers  on  the  sidewalk. 

For  several  days  in  succession  I  saw  several 
speckled  Canada  warblers  hopping  about  my  newly 
planted  garden,  evidently  with  poor  results;  then  it 
was  two  or  more  Blackburnian  warblers  looking 
over  the  same  ground,  their  new  black-and-white 
and  vivid  orange  plumage  fairly  illuminating  the 
dull  surface.  The  redstarts  flashed  along  the  ground 
and  about  the  low  bushes  and  around  the  outbuild- 
ings, delighting  the  eye  in  the  same  way.  Bay- 
breasted  warblers  tarried  and  tarried,  now  on  the 
ground,  now  in  the  lower  branches  of  the  trees  or  in 
bushes.  I  sat  by  a  rapid  rocky  stream  one  after- 
noon and  watched  for  half  an  hour  a  score  or  more 

15 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

of  myrtle  warblers  snapping  up  the  gauzy-winged 
insects  that  hovered  above  the  water  in  the  fitful 
sunshine.  What  loops  and  lines  of  color  they  made, 
now  perched  on  the  stones,  now  on  the  twigs  of  the 
overhanging  trees,  now  hovering,  now  swooping! 
What  an  animated  scene  they  presented !  They  had 
struck  a  rare  find  and  were  making  the  most  of  it. 

On  other  occasions  I  saw  the  magnolia  and  Cape 
May  and  chestnut-sided  warblers  under  the  same 
stress  of  food-shortage  searching  in  unwonted  places. 
One  bedraggled  and  half-starved  female  magnolia 
warbler  lingered  eight  or  ten  days  in  a  row  of  Jap- 
anese barberry-bushes  under  my  window,  where 
she  seemed  to  find  some  minute  and,  to  me,  invisible 
insect  on  the  leaves  and  in  the  blossoms  that  seemed 
worth  her  while. 

This  row  of  barberry -bushes  was  the  haunt  for 
a  week  or  more  of  two  or  three  male  ruby-throated 
hummingbirds.  Not  one  female  did  we  see,  but  two 
males  were  often  there  at  the  same  time,  and  some- 
times three.  They  came  at  all  hours  and  probed  the 
clusters  of  small  greenish-yellow  blossoms,  and 
perched  on  the  twigs  of  intermingled  lilacs,  often 
remaining  at  rest  five  or  six  minutes  at  a  time. 
They  chased  away  the  big  queen  bumble-bees 
which  also  reaped  a  harvest  there,  and  occasionally 
darted  spitefully  at  each  other.  The  first  day  I  saw 
them,  they  appeared  to  be  greatly  fatigued,  as  if 
they  had  just  made  the  long  journey  from  Central 

16 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

America.  Never  before  had  I  seen  this  bird-Jewel 
of  omnipotent  wing  take  so  kindly  and  so  habituat- 
edly  to  the  perch. 

The  unseasonable  season,  no  doubt,  caused  the 
death  of  vast  numbers  of  warblers.  We  picked  up 
two  about  the  paths  on  my  place,  and  the  neighbors 
found  dead  birds  about  their  grounds.  Often  live 
birds  were  so  reduced  in  vitality  that  they  allowed 
the  passer-by  to  pick  them  up.  Where  one  dead  bird 
was  seen,  no  doubt  hundreds  escaped  notice  in  the 
fields  and  groves.  A  bird  lives  so  intensely  —  rapid 
breathing  and  high  temperature  —  that  its  need  for 
food  is  always  pressing.  These  adventurous  little 
aviators  had  come  all  the  way  from  South  and  Cen- 
tral America;  the  fuel-supply  of  their  tiny  engines 
was  very  low,  and  they  suffered  accordingly. 

A  friend  writing  me  from  Maine  at  this  time  had 
the  same  story  of  famishing  warblers  to  tell.  Certain 
of  our  more  robust  birds  suffered.  A  male  oriole 
came  under  my  window  one  morning  and  pecked  a 
long  time  at  a  dry  crust  of  bread — a  food,  I  dare  say, 
it  had  never  tasted  before.  The  robins  alone  were 
in  high  feather.  The  crop  of  angleworms  was  one 
hundred  per  cent,  and  one  could  see  the  robins 
"snaking"  them  out  of  the  ground  at  all  hours. 

Emerson  is  happy  in  his  epithet  "the  punctual 
birds."  They  are  nearly  always  here  on  time  —  al- 
ways, considering  the  stage  of  the  season;  but  the 
inflexible  calendar  often  finds  them  late  or  early. 

17 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

There  is  one  bird,  however,  that  keeps  pretty  close 
to  the  calendar.  I  refer  to  the  white-crowned  spar- 
row, the  most  distinguished-looking  of  all  our  spar- 
rows. Year  after  year,  be  the  season  early  or  late, 
I  am  on  the  lookout  for  him  between  the  12th  and 
the  16th  of  May.  This  year,  on  the  13th,  I  looked 
out  of  my  kitchen  window  and  saw  two  males  hop- 
ping along  side  by  side  in  the  garden.  Unhurriedly 
they  moved  about,  unconscious  of  their  shapely 
forms  and  fine  bearing.  Their  black-and-white 
crowns,  their  finely  penciled  backs,  their  pure  ashen- 
gray  breasts,  and  their  pretty  carriage,  give  them  a 
decided  look  of  distinction.  Such  a  contrast  to  our 
nervous  and  fidgety  song  sparrow,  bless  her  little 
heart!  And  how  different  from  the  more  chunky 
and  plebeian-looking  white-throats  —  bless  their 
hearts  also  for  their  longer  tarrying  and  their  sweet, 
quavering  ribbon  of  song!  The  fox  sparrow,  the 
most  brilliant  singer  of  all  our  sparrows,  is  an  un- 
certain visitor  in  the  Hudson  River  Valley,  and  sea- 
sons pass  without  one  glimpse  of  him. 

The  spring  of  1917  was  remarkable  for  the  num- 
ber of  migrating  blue  jays.  For  many  days  in  May 
I  beheld  the  unusual  spectacle  of  processions  of  jays 
streaming  northward.  Considering  the  numbers  I 
saw  during  the  short  time  in  the  morning  that  I  was 
in  the  open,  if  the  numbers  I  did  not  see  were  in  like 
proportion,  many  thousands  of  them  must  have 
passed  my  outlook  northward.  The  jay  is  evidently 

18 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

more  or  less  a  migrant.  I  saw  not  one  here  during 
the  winter,  which  is  unusual.  As  one  goes  south  in 
winter  the  number  of  jays  greatly  increases,  till  in 
Georgia  they  are  nearly  as  abundant  as  robins  are 
here  in  summer. 

In  late  April  a  friend  wrote  me  from  a  town  in 
northern  New  York  that  the  high-holes  disturbed 
his  sleep  in  the  early  morning  by  incessant  drum- 
ming on  the  metal  roofs  and  gutters  and  ridge- 
boards.  They  were  making  the  same  racket  around 
us  at  the  same  hour.  Early  in  the  month  a  pair  of 
them  seem  to  have  been  attracted  to  a  cavity  in  the 
mid-top  of  a  maple-tree  near  the  house,  and  the 
male  began  to  warm  up  under  the  fever  of  the  nest- 
ing-impulse, till  he  made  himself  quite  a  nuisance 
to  sleepers  who  did  not  like  to  be  drummed  out 
before  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  How  loudly  he 
did  publish  and  proclaim  his  joy  in  the  old  com- 
mand which  spring  always  reaffirms  in  all  creatures ! 
With  call  and  drum,  repeated  to  the  weariness  of 
his  less  responsive  neighbors,  he  made  known  the 
glad  tidings  from  his  perch  on  the  verge  of  the  tin 
roof;  he  would  send  forth  the  loud,  rapid  call,  which, 
as  Thoreau  aptly  says,  has  the  effect  as  of  some  one 
suddenly  opening  a  window  and  calling  in  breathless 
haste,  "Quick,  quick,  quick,  quick!"  Then  he 
would  bow  his  head  and  pour  a  volley  of  raps  upon 
the  wood  or  metal,  which  became  a  continuous 
stream  of  ringing  blows.  One  w^ould  have  thought 

19 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

that  he  had  a  steel  punch  for  a  bill,  and  that  it 
never  got  dull. 

But  the  high-hole's  bill  is  a  wonderful  instrument 
and  serves  him  in  many  ways.  In  the  spring  bird- 
orchestra  he  plays  an  important  part,  more  so  than 
that  of  any  other  of  the  woodpeckers.  He  is  never 
a  disturber  of  the  country  quiet  except  on  such 
occasions  as  above  referred  to.  His  insistent  call 
coming  up  from  the  April  and  May  meadows  or 
pastures  or  groves  is  pleasing  to  the  nature-lover 
to  a  high  degree.  It  does  seem  to  quicken  the  sea- 
son's coming,  though  my  pair  were  slow  in  getting 
down  to  business,  doubtless  on  account  of  the  back- 
ward spring  and  the  consequent  scarcity  of  ants, 
which  are  their  favorite  food. 

"WTien  on  the  1st  of  June  I  looked  into  the  cavity 
in  one  of  my  maples,  and  saw  only  one  egg,  I  thought 
it  a  meagre  result  for  all  that  month  and  a  half  of 
beating  of  drum  and  clashing  of  cymbals;  but  on 
the  20th  of  June  the  results  were  more  ample,  and 
four  open  mouths  greeted  me  as  I  again  looked  into 
the  httle  dark  chamber  in  the  maple.  The  drumming 
and  trumpeting  had  ceased,  and  the  festive  and 
holiday  air  of  the  birds  had  given  place  to  an  air  of 
silent  solicitude.  As  the  cavity  is  a  natural  one,  the 
result  of  a  decayed  limb,  it  does  not  have  the  car- 
peting of  soft  pulverized  "dozy"  wood  that  it 
would  have  had  it  been  excavated  by  the  birds. 
Hence,  for  days  before  the  full  complement  of  eggs 

20 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

was  laid,  and  after  the  young  had  hatched,  I  used  to 
see  and  hear,  as  I  passed  by,  one  of  the  parent  birds 
pecking  on  the  sides  of  the  cavity,  evidently  to 
loosen  material  to  supply  this  deficiency. 

The  high-hole  is  our  most  abundant  species  of 
woodpecker,  and  as  he  gets  most  of  his  living  from 
the  ground  instead  of  from  the  trees,  he  is  a  mi- 
grant in  the  Northern  States.  Our  other  members 
of  the  family  are  mostly  black,  white,  and  red,  but 
the  high-hole  is  colored  very  much  like  the  meadow- 
lark,  in  mottled  browns  and  whites  and  yellows, 
with  a  dash  of  red  on  the  nape  of  his  neck.  To  his 
enemies  in  the  air  he  is  not  a  conspicuous  object  on 
the  ground,  as  the  other  species  would  be. 

IV 

The  waves  of  bird  migrants  roll  on  through  the 
States  into  Canada  and  beyond,  breaking  like  waves 
on  the  shore,  and  spreading  their  contents  over 
large  areas.  The  warbler  wave  spends  itself  largely 
in  the  forests  and  mountains  of  the  northern  tier  of 
States  and  of  Canada;  its  utmost  range,  in  the  shape 
of  the  pileolated  warbler  (the  Western  form  of 
Wilson's  black-cap)  and  a  few  others,  reaching 
beyond  the  Arctic  Circle,  while  its  content  of 
ground  warblers,  in  the  shape  of  the  Maryland 
yellow-throat  and  the  Kentucky  and  the  hooded 
warblers,  begins  to  drop  out  south  of  the  Potomac 
and  in  Ohio. 

21 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

The  robins  cover  a  very  wide  area,  as  do  the 
song  sparrows,  the  kingbirds,  the  vireos,  the  flickers, 
the  orioles,  the  catbirds,  and  others.  The  area  cov- 
ered by  the  boboUnks  is  fast  becoming  less  and  less, 
or  at  least  it  is  moving  farther  and  farther  north. 
Bobolinks  in  New  York  State  meadows  are  becom- 
ing rare  birds,  but  in  Canadian  meadows  they  ap- 
pear to  be  on  the  increase.  The  mowing-machine 
and  the  earlier  gathering  of  the  hay-crop  by  ten  or 
fourteen  days  than  fifty  years  ago  probably  ac- 
count for  it. 

As  the  birds  begin  to  arrive  from  the  South  in 
the  spring,  the  birds  that  have  come  down  from  the 
North  to  spend  the  winter  with  us  —  the  crossbills, 
the  pine  grosbeaks,  the  pine  linnets,  the  red-breasted 
nuthatches,  the  juncos,  and  the  snow  buntings  — 
begin  to  withdraw.  The  ebb  of  one  species  follows 
the  flow  of  another.  One  winter,  in  December,  a 
solitary  red-breasted  nuthatch  took  up  his  abode 
with  me,  attracted  by  the  suet  and  nuts  I  had 
placed  on  a  maple-tree-trunk  in  front  of  my  study 
window  for  the  downy  woodpecker,  the  chickadees, 
and  the  native  nuthatches.  Red-breast  evidently 
said  to  himself,  "Needless  to  look  farther.'*  He 
took  lodgings  in  a  wren-box  on  a  post  near  by,  and 
at  night  and  during  windy,  stormy  days  was  securely 
housed  there.  He  tarried  tilL\.pril,  and  his  constancy, 
his  pretty  form,  and  his  engaging  ways  greatly  en- 
deared him  to  us.  The  pair  of  white-breasted  nut- 

22 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

hatches  that  fed  at  the  same  table  looked  coarse 
and  common  beside  this  little  delicate  waif  from  the 
far  North.  He  could  not  stand  to  see  lying  about 
a  superabundance  of  cracked  hickory-nuts,  any 
more  than  his  larger  relatives  could,  and  would 
work  industriously,  carrying  them  away  and  hiding 
them  in  the  woodpile  and  summer-house  near  by. 
The  other  nuthatches  bossed  him,  as  they  in  turn 
were  bossed  by  Downy,  and  as  he  in  turn  bossed 
the  brown  creeper  and  the  chickadees.  In  early 
April  my  little  red-breast  disappeared,  and  I  fan- 
cied him  turning  his  face  northward,  urged  by  a 
stronger  impulse  than  that  for  food  and  shelter 
merely.  He  was  my  tiny  guest  from  unknown  lands, 
my  baby  bird,  and  he  left  a  vacancy  that  none  of 
the  others  could  fill. 

The  nuthatches  are  much  more  pleasing  than  the 
woodpeckers.  Soft- voiced,  soft-colored,  gentle-man- 
nered, they  glide  over  the  rough  branches  and  the 
tree-trunks  with  their  boat-shaped  bodies,  going  up 
and  down  and  around,  with  apparently  an  extra 
joint  in  their  necks  that  enables  them,  head-down- 
ward, to  look  straight  out  from  the  tree-trunk;  their 
motions  seem  far  less  mechanical  and  angular  than 
those  of  the  woodpeckers  and  the  creepers.  Downy 
can  back  down  a  tree  by  short  hitches,  but  he  never 
ventures  to  do  it  headfirst,  nor  does  the  creeper; 
but  the  universal  joint  in  the  nuthatch's  body  and 
its  rounded  keel  enable  it  to  move  head  on  indif- 

23 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

ferently  in  all  directions.  Its  soft  nasal  call  in  the 
spring  woods  is  one  of  the  most  welcome  of  sounds. 
It  is  like  the  voice  of  children,  plaintive  but  con- 
tented, a  soft  interrogation  in  the  ear  of  the  sylvan 
gods.  Wliat  a  contrast  to  the  sharp,  steely  note  of 
the  woodpeckers  —  the  hairy 's  like  the  metallic 
sounds  of  the  tinsmith  and  Downy 's  a  minor  key 
of  the  same! 

But  the  woodpeckers  have  their  drums  which 
make  the  dry  limbs  vocal,  and  hint  the  universal 
spring  awakening  in  a  very  agreeable  manner.  The 
two  sounds  together,  the  childish  "Yank,  yank," 
of  the  nuthatch,  and  the  resonant  *' Rat-tat-tat" 
of  Downy,  are  coincident  with  the  stirring  sap  in 
the  maple  trees.  The  robin,  the  bluebird,  the  song 
sparrow,  and  the  phoebe  have  already  loosened  the 
fetters  of  winter  in  the  open.  It  is  interesting  to  note 
how  differently  the  woodpeckers  and  the  nuthatches 
use  their  beaks  in  procuring  their  food.  DoTvuy's 
head  is  a  trip-hammer,  and  he  drives  his  beak  into 
the  wood  by  short,  sharp  blows,  making  the  chips 
fly,  while  the  nuthatch  strikes  more  softly,  using  his 
whole  body  in  the  movement.  He  delivers  a  kind  of 
feathered  blow  on  the  fragment  of  nut  which  he  has 
placed  in  the  vise  of  the  tree's  bark.  My  little  red- 
breast, previously  referred  to,  came  down  on  a  nut 
in  the  same  way,  with  a  pretty  extra  touch  of  the 
flash  of  his  wings  at  each  stroke,  as  the  wood- 
chopper  says  *'Hah!"  when  sending  his  axe  home, 

24. 


THE  SPRING  BIRD  PROCESSION 

If  this  does  not  add  force  to  his  blows,  it  certainly 
emphasizes  them  in  a  very  pretty  manner. 

Each  species  of  wild  creature  has  its  own  indi- 
vidual ways  and  idiosyncrasies  which  one  likes  to 
note.  As  I  write  these  lines  a  male  kingbird  flies  by 
the  apple-tree  in  which  his  mate  is  building  a  nest, 
with  that  peculiar  mincing  and  affected  flight  which 
none  other  of  the  flycatchers,  so  far  as  I  know,  ever 
assumes.  The  olive-sided  flycatcher  has  his  own 
little  trick,  too,  which  the  others  do  not  have:  I 
have  seen  his  whole  appearance  suddenly  change 
while  sitting  on  a  limb,  by  the  exhibition  of  a  band 
of  white  feathers  like  a  broad  chalk-mark  outlining 
his  body.  Apparently  the  white  feathers  under  the 
wings  could  be  projected  at  will,  completely  trans- 
forming the  appearance  of  the  bird.  He  would 
change  in  a  twinkling  from  a  dark,  motionless  object 
to  one  siu'rounded  by  a  broad  band  of  white. 

It  occasionally  happens  that  a  familiar  bird  de- 
velops an  unfamiliar  trait.  The  purple  finch  is  one 
of  our  sweetest  songsters  and  best-behaved  birds, 
but  one  that  escapes  the  attention  of  most  country 
people.  But  the  past  season  he  made  himself  con- 
spicuous with  us  by  covering  the  ground  beneath 
the  cherry-trees  with  cherry-blossoms.  Being  hard 
put  to  it  for  food,  a  flock  of  the  birds  must  have  dis- 
covered that  every  cherry-blossom  held  a  tidbit  in 
the  shape  of  its  ovary.  At  once  the  birds  began  to 
cut  out  these  ovaries,  soon  making  the  ground  white 

25 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

beneath  the  trees.  I  grew  alarmed  for  the  safety  of 
my  crop  of  Windsors,  and  tried  to  "shoo"  the  birds 
away.  They  looked  down  upon  me  as  if  they  con- 
sidered it  a  good  joke.  Even  when  we  shot  one,  to 
make  sure  of  the  identity  of  the  bird,  the  flock  only 
flew  to  the  next  tree  and  went  on  with  the  snipping. 
Beneath  two  cherry-trees  that  stood  beside  the  high- 
way the  blossoms  drifted  into  the  wagon  tracks  like 
snowflakes.  I  concluded  that  the  birds  had  taken 
very  heavy  toll  of  my  cherries,  but  it  turned  out 
that  they  had  only  done  a  little  of  the  much-needed 
thinning.  Out  of  a  cluster  of  six  or  eight  blossoms, 
they  seldom  took  more  than  two  or  three,  as  if  they 
knew  precisely  what  they  were  about,  and  were  in- 
tent on  rendering  me  a  service.  When  the  robins 
and  the  cedar-birds  come  for  the  cherries  they  are 
not  so  considerate,  but  make  a  clean  sweep.  The 
finches  could  teach  them  manners  —  and  morals. 


II 

NATURE  LORE 

EMERSON  in  his  Journal  says,  "All  facts  in 
nature  interest  us  because  they  are  deep  and 
not  accidental."  Facts  of  nature  are  undoubtedly 
of  interest  to  most  persons,  though  whether  or  not 
Emerson  gives  the  true  reason  may  be  questioned. 
I  would  sooner  venture  the  explanation  that  it  is 
because  nature  is  a  sort  of  outlying  province  of 
ourselves.  We  feel  a  kinship  with  her  works,  and  in 
bird  and  beast,  in  tree  and  flower,  we  behold  the 
workings  of  the  same  life  principle  that  has  brought 
us  where  we  are  and  relates  us  to  all  living  things* 
Explain  the  matter  as  we  may,  the  facts  and  do- 
ings of  nature  interest  us,  and  our  interest  is  bound 
to  grow  as  we  enlarge  our  acquaintance  with  them, 
— which  is  about  like  saying  that  our  interest  keeps 
pace  with  our  interest.  But  so  it  is.  Water  does  not 
taste  good  to  us  until  we  are  thirsty.  Before  we  ask 
questions  we  must  have  questions  to  ask,  and  be- 
fore we  have  questions  to  ask  we  must  feel  an  awak- 
ened interest  or  curiosity.  Action  and  reaction  go 
hand  in  hand;  interest  begets  interest;  knowledge 
breeds  knowledge.  Once  started  in  pursuit  of  nature 
lore,  we  are  pretty  sure  to  keep  on.  When  people 
ask  me,  "How  shall  we  teach  our  children  to  love 

27 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

nature?"  I  reply:  "Do  not  try  to  teach  them  at  all. 
Just  turn  them  loose  in  the  country  and  trust  to 
luck."  It  is  time  enough  to  answer  children's  ques- 
tions when  they  are  interested  enough  to  ask  them. 
Knowledge  without  love  does  not  stick;  but  if  love 
comes  first,  knowledge  is  pretty  sure  to  follow.  I  do 
not  know  how  I  first  got  my  o^ti  love  for  nature, 
but  I  suppose  it  was  because  I  was  born  and  passed 
my  youth  on  the  farm,  and  reacted  spontaneously 
to  the  natural  objects  about  me.  I  felt  a  certain 
privacy  and  kinship  with  the  woods  and  fields  and 
streams  long  before  the  naturalist  awoke  to  self- 
consciousness  within  me.  A  feeling  of  companion- 
ship with  Nature  came  long  prior  to  any  conscious 
desire  for  accurate  and  specific  knowledge  about  her 
works.  I  loved  the  flowers  and  the  wild  creatures, 
as  most  healthy  children  do,  long  before  I  knew 
there  w^as  such  a  study  as  botany  or  natural  history. 
And  when  I  take  a  walk  now,  thoughts  of  natural 
history  play  only  a  secondary  part;  I  suspect  it  is 
more  to  bathe  the  spirit  in  natural  influences  than 
to  store  the  mind  with  natural  facts.  I  think  I  know 
what  Emerson  means  when  he  says  elsewhere  in  his 
Journal  that  a  walk  in  the  woods  is  one  of  the  secrets 
for  dodging  old  age.  I  understand  what  the  poet 
meant  when  he  sang :  — 

**  Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings." 

Nature  lore  —  that  is  it.  Not  so  much  a  notebook 

28 


NATURE  LORE 

full  of  notes  of  birds  and  trees  and  flowers  as  a  heart 
warmed  and  refreshed  by  sympathetic  intercourse 
and  contact  with  these  primal  forces.  When  "the 
press  of  one's  foot  to  the  earth  springs  a  hundred 
affections,'*  as  Whitman  says,  then  one  gets  some- 
thing more  precious  than  exact  science.  Nature  lore 
is  a  mixture  of  love  and  knowledge,  and  it  comes 
more  by  way  of  the  heart  than  of  the  head.  We 
absorb  it  with  the  air  we  breathe;  it  awaits  us  at 
the  side  of  the  spring  when  we  stoop  to  drink;  it 
drops  upon  us  from  the  trees  beneath  which  we 
fondly  linger;  it  is  written  large  on  the  rocks  and 
ledges  where  as  boys  we  prowled  about  on  Sundays, 
putting  our  hands  in  the  niches  or  on  the  rocky 
shelves  older  than  Thebes  or  Karnak,  touching  care- 
fully the  phoebe's  mossy  nest,  with  its  pearl-white 
eggs,  or  noting  the  spoor  of  coon  or  fox,  or  coming 
face  to  face  with  the  oldest  inhabitant  of  the  region, 
who  saw  the  foundations  of  the  hills  laid  and  the 
valleys  scooped  out  —  Geologic  Time,  whose  tent 
is  the  gray,  overhanging  rocks. 

Many  a  walk  I  take  in  the  fields  and  woods  when 
I  gather  no  new  facts  and  make  no  new  observa- 
tions; and  yet  I  feel  enriched.  I  have  been  for  an 
hour  or  more  on  intimate  terms  with  trees  and  rocks 
and  grass  and  birds  and  with  "Nature's  primal 
sanities";  the  fragrance  of  the  wild  things  lingers 
about  my  mind  for  days. 

Yet  the  close  observation  of  nature,  the  training 

29 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

of  the  eye  and  mind  to  read  her  signals,  to  penetrate 
her  screens,  to  disentangle  her  skeins,  to  catch  her 
significant  facts,  add  greatly  to  the  pleasure  of  a 
walk  and  to  life  in  the  country.  Natural  history  is 
on  the  wing,  and  all  about  us  on  the  foot.  It  hides 
in  holes,  it  perches  on  trees,  it  runs  to  cover  under 
the  stones  and  into  the  stone  walls;  it  soars,  it  sings, 
it  drums,  it  calls  by  day,  it  barks  and  prowls  and 
hoots  by  night.  It  eats  your  fruit,  it  plunders  your 
garden,  it  raids  your  henroost,  and  maybe  disturbs 
your  midnight  slumbers. 

At  Woodchuck  Lodge  the  woodchucks  eat  up  my 
peas  and  melons  and  dig  under  the  foundations  of 
my  house;  the  coons  come  down  off  the  mountain 
for  sweet  apples  in  my  orchard.  I  surprise  the  foxes 
among  the  cows  on  my  early  morning  walks,  or  am 
awakened  in  the  dawn  by  the  hue  and  cry  of  the 
crows  over  a  fox  passing  near,  a  little  late  in  getting 
back  to  the  cover  of  the  woods. 

All  such  things  add  interest  to  country  life.  No 
wild  creature  comes  amiss,  even  though  it  rob  your 
henroost.  I  sometimes  grow  tender  toward  the  wood- 
chuck,  even  though  he  raids  my  garden;  he  is  such 
a  characteristic  bit  of  wild  nature,  creeping  about 
the  fields,  or  sitting  upon  his  haunches  to  see  if 
danger  is  near.  He  is  of  the  earth,  earthy,  its  true 
offspring,  steeped  in  its  savors,  hugging  it  close, 
harmonizing  with  its  soil  and  rocks,  almost  as  liquid 
as  its  fountains  and  as  perennial  as  its  grass. 

30 


NATURE  LORE 

I  even  get  reconciled  to  the  unsavory  but  gentle- 
mannered  skunk.  He  does  not  disturb  me  if  I  do 
not  disturb  him,  and  if  he  chances  to  get  into  a  trap 
which  I  have  set  for  some  other  animal,  his  compo- 
sure is  great,  and  he  looks  the  injured  innocent  that 
he  is.  Only  I  must  keep  my  eye  upon  that  tail  when 
it  starts  to  rise  over  his  back.  There  is  a  masked 
battery  there  the  noiseless  shot  of  which  is  usually 
well  aimed,  and  is  pretty  sure  to  rout  the  foe  whether 
it  hit  the  mark  or  not.  Last  summer  the  morning 
light  revealed  one  held  by  the  leg  in  a  steel  trap 
which  I  had  set  for  rats  that  were  helping  them- 
selves too  freely  to  my  roasting-ears.  How  sorry  and 
deprecatory  he  looked  as   I  approached,   slowly 
straining  to  pull  away  from  the  cruel  trap,  and 
turning  upon  me  a  half -appealing,  half -reproachful 
look !  By  imitating  his  slow,  gentle  manners,  I  lifted 
him  and  the  trap  to  the  mouth  of  a  woodchuck  hole, 
into  which  he  quickly  crept,  leaving  his  trap-held 
foot    outside.  To  release  him  then  was  an  easy 
matter. 

The  skunk  is  a  night  prowler,  and  subsists  mainly 
upon  insects  and  small  rodents;  but  I  would  not 
insure  the  birds*  eggs  or  the  young  birds  that  hap- 
pen to  be  in  his  path,  though  Mr.  Seton  says  his 
tame  skunks  do  not  know  how  to  deal  with  hen's 
eggs. 

There  is  no  prettier  bit  of  natural  history  upon 
four  legs  than  the  red  fox,  especially  when  you  sur- 

31 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

prise  him  in  your  morning  walk,  or  he  surprises  you 
in  his.  He,  too,  is  a  night  prowler,  but  often  he  does 
not  get  home  till  after  sun-up.  Early  one  October 
morning,  as  I  stood  in  the  road  looking  out  over  the 
landscape,  a  belated  fox  jumped  over  the  wall  a 
few  yards  from  me  and  loped  unconcernedly  along 
parallel  with  the  road,  then  turned  and  scaled  the 
fence,  and  crossed  the  road,  and  went  bounding  up 
the  hill  toward  the  woods  with  a  grace  and  ease  im- 
possible to  describe.  I  suppose  it  was  his  massive 
tail  held  level  with  his  body  that  helped  give  the 
idea  of  buoyancy.  There  was  no  apparent  effort,  as 
when  the  farm  dog  climbs  the  hill,  but  the  ease  and 
lightness  that  goes  with  floating  and  winged  things. 
It  was  indeed  a  pleasing  spectacle,  such  as  I  had 
not  seen  for  many  years.  This  winter  the  fox-hunter 
with  his  hound  will  be  trailing  him  from  mountain 
to  mountain  or  from  valley  to  valley,  and  he  will 
drift  along  over  the  snow,  pausing  now  and  then 
to  harken  back  along  his  trail,  and  reluctantly 
expose  himself  to  the  eye  of  day  in  the  broad  open 
spaces.  Unless  the  day  is  wet  and  his  tail  and  fur 
get  draggled,  he  will  run  from  sun  to  sun  without 
much  apparent  fatigue.  But  if  his  burden  gets  too 
great,  he  knows  of  holes  in  the  rocks  where  he  can 
take  refuge. 

Any  device  that  a  plant  or  an  animal  has  for  get- 
ting on  in  the  world  interests  us;  it  brings  the  lower 
orders  nearer  to  us.  We  have  our  own  devices  and 

32 


NATURE  LORE 

makeshifts,  and  we  like  to  know  how  it  is  with  our 
near  or  distant  kin  among  the  humbler  orders.  They 
are  ourselves  not  yet  come  to  consciousness  and  to 
the  elective  franchise.  When  the  burr  of  the  bur- 
dock, reaching  forth  its  arms  for  such  a  chance, 
seizes  on  to  your  coat-tail,  take  your  pocket-glass 
and  examine  the  minute  hooks  that  tip  the  ends  of 
the  seed-scales.  They  fish  for  you  and  your  dog  and 
sheep  and  cow,  and  they  catch  you,  not  with  one 
hook,  but  with  twenty  or  fifty,  all  at  the  same  time. 
But  in  this  case  it  is  not  the  fish  that  is  caught,  but 
the  fisherman.  The  plan  of  this  fisherman  is  to  go 
right  along  with  his  captor,  the  farther  the  better, 
and  plant  his  progeny  in  a  new  territory.  He  lets  go 
his  hold  upon  the  parent  plant  at  a  mere  touch,  but 
the  touch  gives  him  all  the  hold  he  wants.  The 
hooks  are  fine  and  hard,  like  minute,  sharp  horns, 
not  too  much  bent,  —  that  would  defeat  the  end,  — 
and  perfectly  smooth  and  finished.  Instead  of  hooks, 
the  weed  called  "bidens"  has  the  teeth  or  prongs 
armed  with  barbs  like  a  fish-hook,  many  of  them  on 
each  prong.  They  are  quite  as  sure  a  trap  as  the 
hooks  of  the  burdock.  Nature  never  fails  to  perfect 
her  device.  Natural  selection  attends  to  that.  Her 
traps,  her  wings,  her  springs,  her  balloons,  always 
work.  The  wings  of  the  maple  keys,  the  ash,  and  the 
linden  are  all  different,  but  they  all  work. 

Nature  seems  partial  to  the  burdock.  What  extra 
pains  she  seems  to  have  taken  to  perpetuate  this 

33 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

worse  than  useless  plant!  So  far  as  I  know,  nothing 
wants  it  or  profits  by  it,  though  I  have  heard  that 
the  petioles   when   cooked   suggest   salsify.    It  is 
an  Ishmaelite  among  plants.  Every  man's  hand 
is  against  it,  and  nearly  every  animal  has  reason 
to   detest  it.  Against  their  wills  they  are  engaged 
in  sowing  its  seeds.  The  other  day  I  found  some 
burrs  matted  on  the  tail  of  a  woodchuck.  Birds 
have  been  found  trapped  by  its  hooks.  Apparently 
the  only  domestic  animal  that  it  does  not  seize  hold 
of  is  the  pig;  the  stiff,  smooth  bristles  of  the  pig 
afford  it  a  scant  hold.  It  possesses  more  original  sin 
than  any  other  plant  I  know.  How  it  drives  its  roots 
into  the  ground,  defying  your  spading-fork!  How  it 
seems  to  drive  its  burrs  into  your  garments,  or  into 
the  hair  of  animals,  refusing  to  let  go  till  it  is  fairly 
torn  in  pieces!  See  the  dog  biting  them  out  of  his 
hair  with  a  kind  of  contemptuous  fury.  If  you  try 
to  help  him,  you  must  proceed  very  carefully  and 
deliberately  or  he  will  confound  you  with  the  bur- 
dock and  threaten  the  hand  that  seeks  to  aid  him. 
The  burdock  is  vicious  to  the  last,  the  old  burr 
clings  with  the  same  dogged  determination  as  the 
new.  As  a  noxious  weed  it  is  a  great  success.  Dis- 
courage it  by  cutting  it  down  you  cannot.  By  hook 
or  by  crook  it  is  bound  to  persist.  Its  juice  is  bitter 
and  its  fibre  coarse.  What  a  pity  that  so  much  na- 
tive grit  and  enterprise  cannot  be  turned  to  some 
good  account!  The  burrs  are  detached  from  the 

34 


NATURE  LORE 

parent  stem  almost  as  easily  as  are  the  quills  from 
the  porcupine.  Even  while  it  is  yet  in  bloom  the 
hooks  will  seize  your  coat-tails  and  the  burr  let  go 
its  hold  upon  the  stalk.  The  hooks  are  not  attached 
to  the  separate  seeds,  but  are  for  the  burrs  as  a 
whole. 

I  know  of  no  plant  so  difficult  to  prevent  seeding. 
Cut  it  down  in  July,  and  in  August  it  has  new  shoots 
loaded  with  burrs;  cut  these  off,  and  in  late  Sep- 
tember, or  early  October,  it  will  evolve  burrs  di- 
rectly from  the  stub  of  the  old  stalk,  often  in  clusters 
and  bunches,  without  a  leaf  to  mother  them. 

The  plant  if  unhindered  grows  three  or  four  feet 
high  and  bears  about  five  hundred  burrs,  which  usu- 
ally have  twelve  seeds  each,  or  six  thousand  seeds 
to  the  plant.  Before  the  seeds  are  ripe  they  are 
nearly  the  size  and  color  of  rye  or  peeled  oats.  Later 
they  shrink  and  turn  dark.  So  far  as  I  know,  nothing 
feeds  upon  them,  save  the  larvae  of  some  insect.  I 
have  examined  many  burrs  in  October  and  found  a 
small  white  grub  in  a  single  seed  in  each  of  them. 
Those  good  people  who  fancy  that  everythi,ng  was 
made  for  some  special  service  to  man,  would  have 
trouble,  I  think,  to  find  the  uses  of  the  burdock. 

The  advantage  of  that  array  of  eager  hooks  to 
the  burdock  (there  are  more  than  two  hundred  of 
them  on  each  burr)  seems  obvious,  and  yet  here  is 
the  yellow  dock  alongside  of  it,  a  relative  of  our 
buckwheat,  that  has  no  hooks  or  other  devices  that 

35 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

I  can  discover  for  scattering  its  seed,  and  yet  it 
appears  to  compete  successfully  with  its  more  lusty 
neighbor.  One  is  about  as  abundant  and  trouble- 
some to  the  gardener  as  the  other.  The  seeds  of  the 
yellow  dock  are  like  small,  brown,  polished  buck- 
wheat. I  have  never  seen  birds  or  squirrels  eat  them, 
and  what  secret  way  they  have  of  keeping  up  with 
the  burdocks  I  do  not  know.  The  burdock  plants  it- 
self deeper  in  the  ground,  and  defies  your  spading- 
fork  the  more  successfully. 

I  have  always  been  curious  to  know  why  the  birch 
is  the  only  one  among  om*  many  forest-trees  that 
seems  to  have  an  ambition  to  plant  itself  upon  a 
rock.  Other  trees  do  so  occasionally,  but  in  the  woods 
I  am  familiar  with  I  see  ten  birches  upon  rocks  to 
one  of  any  other  tree.  They  sit  down  upon  the  rock 
as  if  it  were  a  chair,  and  run  their  big  roots  off  into 
the  ground,  apparently  entirely  at  home.  How  in 
the  first  place  they  get  enough  foothold  in  the  thin 
coat  of  leaf  mould  that  covers  the  rocks  to  develop 
their  roots  and  send  them  across  the  barren  places 
and  down  into  the  soil  is  a  puzzle.  I  have  seen  a 
small  birch  sapling  that  had  obtained  a  foothold  in 
a  niche  on  the  side  of  a  cliff  send  one  large  root 
diagonally  down  across  the  face  of  the  bare  rock  two 
or  more  yards  to  the  ground,  where  it  took  hold  and 
saved  the  situation.  It  was  like  a  party  going  out 
from  a  starving  camp  for  relief.  To  equip  and  pro- 

38 


NATURE  LORE 

vision  the  party  required  some  resources.  "Yes," 
you  may  say,  "and  to  know  where  to  send  it  re- 
quired some  wit."  But  the  roots  of  a  tree  always 
tend  downward,  as  the  branches  go  upward.  We  are 
at  the  end  of  our  tether  when  we  say  that  such  is 
the  rule  of  nature. 

The  winged  seeds  always  find  their  proper  habi- 
tat, as  if  they  had  eyes  to  see  the  way.  The  seeds  of 
the  cat-tail  flag  find  the  ditches  and  marshes  as  un- 
erringly as  if  they  were  convoyed.  But  this  intelli- 
gence, or  self -direction,  is  only  apparent.  The  wind 
carries  the  seeds  in  all  directions,  and  they  fall  every- 
where, just  as  it  happens,  on  the  hills  as  well  as  in 
the  ditches,  but  only  in  the  latter  do  they  take  root 
and  flourish.  Nature  often  resorts  to  this  wholesale 
method.  In  scattering  pollen  and  germs  by  the 
aid  of  the  wind,  this  is  her  method:  cover  all  the 
ground,  and  you  will  be  sure  to  hit  your  mark 
night  or  day. 

After  one  or  more  windy  days  in  November  I  am 
sure  to  find  huddled  in  the  recess  of  my  kitchen 
door  the  branching  heads  of  a  certain  species  of  wild 
grass  that  grows  somewhere  on  the  hills  west  of  me. 
These  heads  find  their  ways  across  fields  and  high- 
ways, over  fences,  past  tree  and  bushy  barriers, 
down  my  steps,  into  the  storm-house,  and  lie  there, 
waiting  on  the  doorsill  like  things  of  life,  waiting  to 
get  into  the  house.  Not  one  season  alone,  but  every 
season,  they  come  as  punctually  as  the  assessor. 

37 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

The  watchful  broom  routs  them;  but  the  next  day 
or  the  next  week  there  they  are  again,  and  now  and 
then  one  actually  gets  into  the  kitchen,  slipping  in 
between  your  feet  as  you  open  the  door.  They  bring 
word  from  over  the  hills,  and  the  word  is:  '* Sooner 
or  later  Nature  hits  her  mark,  hits  all  marks,  be- 
cause her  aim  is  broadcast  and  her  efforts  ceaseless. 
The  wind  finds  every  crack  and  corner.  We  started 
on  our  journey  not  for  your  door,  but  for  any  door, 
all  doors,  any  shelter  where  we  could  be  at  rest;  and 
here  we  are!" 

The  purple  loosestrife  travels  from  marsh  to 
marsh  in  the  Hudson  River  Valley,  and  as  its  seeds 
are  not  winged,  one  may  wonder  how  it  gets  about 
so  easily.  It  travels  by  the  aid  of  wings,  but  not  of 
its  o\\Ti.  Darwin  discovered  that  the  seeds  of  marsh 
plants  are  often  carried  in  the  mud  on  the  feet  of 
marsh  birds.  Years  ago  the  loosestrife  was  in  a  large 
marsh  six  miles  south  of  me.  A  few  years  later  a  few 
plants  appeared  in  a  pond  near  me,  and  now  this 
and  near-by  ponds  and  marshes  are  lakes  of  royal 
purple  in  August.  The  loosestrife  in  late  summer 
makes  such  a  grand  showing  with  its  vast  armies  of 
tall,  stately  plants  that  one  welcomes  it  to  our  un- 
sightly marshes. 

Only  the  present  season  did  I  observe  a  peculiar 
feature  of  our  wild  clematis  that  a  little  close  atten- 
tion might  have  shown  me  at  any  time :  its  conspic- 
uous appearance  in    September,  after  its  flowers 

38 


NATURE  LORE 

have  faded,  which  has  earned  for  it  the  name  of 
"old-man's-beard,"  is  owing  to  the  fact  that  its 
seeds  have  long,  feathered  tails  to  aid  in  their  dis- 
semination. It  is  the  only  seed  I  know  of  that  the 
wind  carries  by  the  tail.  For  some  obscure  reason 
it  does  not  carry  it  very  far,  or  at  least  does  not 
plant  it  very  successfully,  as  the  clematis  is  rare 
with  me.  Instead  of  being  sown  broadcast  over  the 
hills  and  along  the  fences,  it  appears  sparsely,  at 
wide  intervals.  It  is  such  a  beautiful  vine  both  in 
flowering-time  and  seeding-time  that  one  wishes  it 
were  more  common. 

The  plants  that  travel  by  runners  above  or  below 
ground  are  many;  the  plants  that  travel  by  walking 
are  few.  I  recall  only  the  "walking  fern,"  which 
now  seems  to  have  walked  away  from  my  neighbor- 
hood, and  the  black  raspberry.  Both  are  slow  travel- 
ers, but  they  do  reach  out  and  take  steps. 

Some  trees  can  fight  a  much  more  successful 
battle  against  browsing  animals  than  can  others. 
The  apple  and  the  red  thorn  are  notable  examples. 
Trees  like  the  linden,  which  the  cattle  freely  crop, 
are  easy  victims;  they  put  up  no  kind  of  fight.  They 
sprout  freely,  but  they  make  no  headway;  their  new 
shoots  are  swept  off  every  summer,  and  there  the 
low  stool  of  the  tree  remains.  The  beech  does  better 
amid  grazing  cattle,  but  I  doubt  if  it  ever  wins  the 
fight.  But  the  apple  and  the  thorn,  though  the 

39 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

struggle  is  a  long  and  hard  one,  are  sure  to  win  in 
the  end;  after  many  years  one  central  shoot  gets  a 
start  from  the  top  of  the  thorny  mound  of  cropped 
twigs,  makes  rapid  strides  upward,  and  in  due  sea- 
son stands  there  the  perfected  tree.  It  will  now  bear 
fruit  for  the  short-sighted  grazers  that  sought  to 
destroy  it. 

Our  belief  in  the  uniformity  of  nature,  or  in  the 
unchangeableness  of  natural  law,  is  fundamental. 
We  act  upon  it  every  hour  of  our  lives;  our  bodies 
and  minds  are  built  upon  that  plan.  Yet  in  detail, 
and  within  narrow  limits,  nature  is  unequal,  capri- 
cious, incalculable.  Can  the  farmer  always  foretell 
his  crops  or  forecast  a  wet  season  or  a  dry?  The 
problem  is  too  complex,  or  our  wits  are  too  shallow. 

Last  season  the  hay- crop  over  a  large  part  of  the 
country  broke  the  record.  The  meadows  everywhere, 
and  without  any  very  obvious  reason,  doubled  their 
yield;  the  farmers*  barns  from  Pennsylvania  to 
Maine  were  bursting  with  plenty,  and  at  the  end  of 
haying  a  row  of  stacks  encompassed  or  flanked  most 
of  them.  The  trees  all  seem  to  have  had  a  super- 
abimdance  of  leaves.  On  my  own  grounds  we  raked 
up  and  put  under  cover  for  stable  use  nearly  double 
the  usual  quantity  from  the  same  number  of  trees. 
One  important  factor  in  this  meadow  and  pasture 
and  tree  fertility  was  probably  the  continued  deep 
snows  of  last  winter.  About  one  hundred  inches  fell 
in  the  Hudson  Valley,  and  two  feet  at  one  fall  in 

40 


NATURE  LORE 

December.  Snow  warms  and  fertilizes.  How  it 
warmed  up  and  quickened  the  mice  beneath  it !  The 
meadows  yielded  double  their  usual  number  of 
meadow  mice.  Never  have  I  seen  in  the  spring  evi- 
dence of  such  a  crop.  Over  a  wide  area,  wherever  I 
looked  in  meadow  bottoms  or  grassy  hillsides  or 
shaven  lawns,  there  were  the  runways,  the  grassy 
nests,  the  camping-grounds  of  this  vast  army  of 
meadow  mice.  They  had  evidently  had  a  long 
picnic.  They  had  had  the  world  under  there  all  to 
themselves.  There  had  been  nothing  there  to  molest 
or  to  make  them  afraid,  —  no  fox,  no  cat,  no  owl, 
no  weasel,  no  mink,  —  and  they  had  reveled  in  their 
freedom  and  security.  One  could  read  it  all  in  the 
record  upon  the  ground:  their  straw  villages,  their 
round  tunnels  and  sunken  runways  through  the 
grass,  and  the  marks  and  refuse  everywhere,  as  of 
temporary  social  and  holiday  gatherings.  Vast  num- 
bers of  bushes  and  small  trees,  especially  of  the 
apple  order,  were  stripped  of  their  bark  to  a  height 
of  two  or  more  feet  from  the  ground.  I  even  saw  a 
thicket  of  small  young  locusts  with  stems  as  white 
as  bleached  cornstalks.  Spring  quickly  put  an  end 
to  these  winter  festivities  of  the  mice  and  compelled 
them  to  take  to  their  old  retreats  and  darkened  lives 
under  the  ground.  Evidently  the  old  mother,  in  this 
part  of  the  country  at  least,  took  good  care  of  her 
children  last  winter,  from  grass  and  tree-roots  to 
mice  and  insects. 

41 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

In  her  subtler  physical  forces,  Nature  often  seems 
capricious  and  lawless,  probably  on  account  of  our 
limited  vision.  We  see  the  lightning  cleave  the  air 
in  one  blinding  flash  from  the  clouds  to  the  earth, 
often  shattering  a  tree  or  a  house  on  its  way  down. 
Hence  it  is  always  a  surprise  to  see  the  evidence 
that  the  thunderbolt  strikes  upward  as  well  as 
downward.  During  an  electric  storm  one  summer 
night  an  enormous  charge  of  electricity  came  up 
out  of  the  earth  under  a  maple- tree  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  below  my  study,  scattering  the  sod,  the 
roots,  and  some  small  bushes  like  an  explosion  of 
powder  or  dynamite;  then  it  rooted  around  on  the 
ground  like  a  pig,  devouring  or  annihilating  the 
turf,  making  a  wide,  ragged,  zigzag  trench  seven  or 
eight  feet  long  dowTi  the  hill  in  the  ground,  when  it 
dived  beneath  the  wagon  track,  five  or  six  feet  wide, 
bursting  out  here  and  there  on  the  surface,  then 
escaped  out  of  the  bank  made  by  the  plough  on  the 
edge  of  the  vineyard.  Here  it  seems  to  have  leaped 
to  the  wire  trellis  of  the  grapevines,  running  along  it 
northward,  scorching  the  leaves  here  and  there, 
and  finally  vented  its  fury  on  a  bird-box  that  was 
fastened  to  a  post  at  the  end  of  the  row.  It  com- 
pletely demolished  the  box,  going  a  foot  or  more 
out  of  its  way  to  do  so.  The  box  was  not  occupied, 
so  there  was  not  the  anticlimax  of  a  bolt  of  Jove 
slaughtering  house  wrens  or  bluebirds.  Maybe  it 
was  the  nails  that  drew  the  charge  to  the  box.  But 

4^ 


NATURE  LORE 

why  it  was  rooting  around  down  the  hill  when  it 
came  out  of  the  ground,  instead  of  leaping  upward, 
is  a  puzzle.  It  acted  like  some  blind,  crazy  material 
body  that  did  not  know  where  to  go.  A  cannon-shot 
would  have  made  a  much  smoother  trench.  Its 
course  on  the  ground  was  about  twelve  or  fourteen 
feet,  half  above  and  half  below  ground,  and  its  leap 
in  the  air  about  six  feet.  Strange  that  a  thing  of 
such  incredible  speed  and  power  should  yet  have 
time  to  loiter  about  and  do  such  *'  fool  stunts  " ! 
This  space-annihilator  left  a  trail  like  a  slow, 
plodding  thing.  It  burrowed  like  a  mole,  it  delved 
like  a  plough,  it  leaped  and  ran  like  a  squirrel,  and 
it  struck  like  a  hammer.  A  spectator  would  have 
been  aware  only  of  a  blinding  blaze  of  fire  there 
on  the  edge  of  the  vineyard,  and  heard  a  crash  that 
would  have  stunned  him;  but  probably  could  not 
have  told  whether  the  bolt  came  upward  or  down- 
ward. Lightning  is  much  quicker  than  our  special 
senses. 

On  another  occasion,  beside  my  path  through  the 
woods  to  Slabsides,  I  saw  where  a  bolt  had  come  up 
out  of  a  chipmunk's  hole  at  the  root  of  a  tree,  scat- 
tered the  leaves  and  leaf  mould  about,  and  appar- 
ently disappeared  in  the  air. 

The  lightning  seems  to  have  its  favorite  victims 
among  the  trees.  I  have  never  known  it  to  strike  a 
beech- tree.  Hemlocks  and  pines  are  its  favorites  in 
my  woods.  In  other  regions  the  oak  and  the  ash  re- 

43 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

ceive  its  attention.  An  oak  on  my  father's  farm  was 
struck  twice  in  the  course  of  many  years,  the  last 
bolt  proving  fatal.  The  hard,  or  sugar,  maple,  is 
frequently  struck,  but  only  in  one  instance  have  I 
known  the  tree  to  be  injured.  In  this  case  a  huge 
tree  was  simply  demolished.  Usually  the  bolt  comes 
down  on  the  outside  of  the  tree,  making  a  mark  as 
if  a  knife  had  clipped  off  the  outer  surfaces  of  the 
bark,  revealing  the  reddish-yellow  interior.  In  sev- 
eral cases  I  have  seen  this  effect.  But  a  few  summers 
ago  an  unusually  large  and  solid  sugar  maple  in 
my  neighbor's  woods  received  a  charge  that  simply 
reduced  it  to  stove  wood.  Such  a  scene  of  utter  de- 
struction I  have  never  before  witnessed  in  the  woods. 
The  tree  was  blown  to  pieces  as  if  it  had  been  filled 
with  dynamite.  Over  a  radius  of  fifty  or  more  feet 
the  fragments  of  the  huge  trunk  lay  scattered.  It 
was  as  if  the  bolt,  baflSed  so  long  by  the  rough  coat 
of  mail  of  the  maple,  had  at  last  penetrated  it  and 
had  taken  full  satisfaction.  The  explosive  force  prob- 
ably came  from  the  instantaneous  vaporization  of 
the  sap  of  the  tree  by  the  bolt. 

Some  friends  of  mine  were  inoculated  with  curi- 
osity about  insects  by  watching  the  transformation 
of  the  larvae  of  one  of  the  swallow-tailed  butterflies, 
probably  the  Papilio  asterias.  As  I  was  walking  on 
their  porch  one  morning  in  early  October  I  chanced 
to  see  a  black-and-green  caterpillar  about  two  inches 
long  posed  in  a  meditative  attitude  upon  the  side 

44 


NATURE  LORE 

of  the  house  a  foot  or  more  above  the  floor.  The  lat- 
ter half  of  its  body  was  attached  to  the  board  wall, 
and  the  fore  part  curved  up  from  it  with  bowed  head. 
The  creature  was  motionless,  and  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  deep  meditation.  I  stooped  down  and 
examined  it  more  closely.  I  saw  that  it  was  on  the 
eve  of  a  great  change.  The  surface  of  the  board 
immediately  under  the  forward  part  of  the  body 
had  been  silvered  over  with  a  very  fine  silken  web 
that  was  almost  like  a  wash,  rather  than  something 
w^oven.  Anchored  to  this  on  both  sides,  as  if  grown 
out  of  the  web,  ran  a  very  fine  thread  or  cord  up 
over  the  caterpillar's  back,  which  served  to  hold  it 
in  place;  it  could  lean  against  the  thread  as  a  sailor 
leans  against  a  rope  thrown  around  him  and  tied  to 
the  mast.  With  bowed  head  the  future  butterfly 
hung  there,  and  with  bowed  head  I  waited  and 
watched.  Presently  convulsive  movements  began 
to  traverse  its  body;  through  segment  after  seg- 
ment a  wave  of  effort  seemed  to  pass.  It  was  a  be- 
ginning of  the  travail  pains  of  transformation.  Then 
in  a  twinkling  a  slight  rent  appeared  in  the  skin  on 
the  curve  of  the  back,  revealing  the  new  light-green 
surface  underneath,  the  first  glimpse  of  the  chrys- 
alis. The  butterfly  was  being  born.  Slowly,  as  labor 
continued,  the  split  in  the  skin  extended  down  the 
back  and  over  toward  the  head  till  the  outlines 
of  the  chrysalis  became  plainly  visible.  I  was  wit- 
nessing that  marvelous  transformation  in  nature  of 

45 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

a  worm  into  a  creature  of  a  much  higher  and  more 
attractive  order;  the  worm  mask  was  being  stripped 
off,  and  an  embryo  butterfly  revealed  to  view.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  head  and  forward  part  of  the  body 
were  free,  and  the  latter  half  was  fast  becoming  so. 

The  fine  silken  cord  over  the  back  served  its  pur- 
pose well,  holding  the  creature  in  place  while  it  lit- 
erally wriggled  out  of  its  skin,  and  when  this  feat 
was  accomplished,  holding  it  in  position  for  its  long 
winter  sleep.  The  skin  behaved  as  if  it  were  an  in- 
terested party  in  the  enterprise ;  much  better,  I  am 
sure,  than  one's  garments  would  if  one  were  to  try 
to  wriggle  out  of  them  without  using  one's  limbs. 
It  folded  back,  it  drew  together,  it  finally  became  a 
little  pellet  or  pack  of  cast-off  linen  that  clung  to 
the  tail  end  of  the  chrysalis.  To  effect  the  final 
detachment,  and  not  lose  the  grip  which  this  end 
seemed  to  have  on  the  board  beneath  it,  required  a 
good  deal  of  struggling,  probably  a  full  minute  of 
convulsive  effort  before  the  little  bundle  of  cast-off 
habiliments  let  go  and  dropped,  a  dark  pellet  the 
size  of  a  small  pea.  Then  our  insect  was  at  rest,  and 
seemed  slowly  to  contract  and  stiffen.  It  had  woven 
itself  the  silken  loop  to  hold  it  to  its  support,  and 
it  had  struggled  out  of  its  old  skin  on  its  own  initia- 
tive or  without  being  mothered  or  helped,  as  so 
many  newborn  creatures  are. 

I  did  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  it  spin  the 
cord  over  the  back  which  plays  an  important  part 

46 


NATURE  LORE 

in  the  process  of  transformation,  mechanical  part 
though  it  be;  but  a  few  days  later,  through  the 
patient  and  clear-seeing  eyes  of  my  friend  Miss 
Grace  Humphrey,  I  witnessed  this  operation  also. 
She  wrote :  — 

The  day  after  you  left  we  found  another  caterpillar, 
a  few  feet  away  from  yours.  It  had  already  made  its 
saddle-cord  and  shed  its  silken  robe  when  we  found  it, 
but  we  watched  it  change  from  gray-green  to,  not  green- 
ish-brown at  all,  but  a  grayness  matching  the  concrete  of 
the  house;  for  it  was  higher  up  than  yours,  on  the  ledge 
below  the  window,  hanging  from  the  ledge  against  the 
plaster  wall.  Its  cord,  too,  apparently  grew  thicker  just 
at  the  ends,  showing  up  more  plainly  for  a  bit;  then  like 
yours  it  dried  up  and  more  perfectly  matched  its  back- 
ground. In  neither  of  them  did  the  cord  continue  to  look 
thicker. 

The  same  day  I  found  a  third  caterpillar  under  the 
pear-tree,  the  very  same  kind,  black  with  a  wide  green 
stripe  marking  off  each  segment,  and  the  rows  of  yellow 
buttons.  I  carried  it  on  a  leaf  up  to  the  porch,  where  we 
put  it  under  a  glass  bowl.  But  of  course  it  thought  that 
an  unfavorable  place  for  housing  itself  for  the  winter,  and 
it  would  n't  start,  though  we  kept  it  there  two  days.  At 
noon,  when  freed,  it  climbed  up  the  wall  of  the  house 
rather  near  yours  (so  they  were  photographed  together), 
and  we  held  our  breaths  to  see  if  it  would  start  building 
operations  there.  But  no.  Up  the  window-ledge  it  wormed 
its  way,  and  thence  up  and  up,  by  the  side  of  the  window, 
leaving  all  the  way  along  a  silky  thread,  and  constantly 
going  back  and  forth  with  its  head. 

Mr.  R knocked  it  down  once  to  keep  it  in  the  sun- 
light in  order  to  photograph  it,  and  it  immediately  climbed 

47 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

up  to  the  same  spot,  all  the  time  leaving  the  white  silk 
thread.  It  kept  climbing  up  and  up  till  I  had  to  get  on  a 
chair  to  see  it,  and  once  I  lost  my  balance  and  jumped 
down,  jarring  it  so  that  I  knocked  it  to  the  floor.  But  up 
it  got,  and  climbed  up,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  afternoon 
alternately  wriggling  about  to  find  just  the  right  place 
and  making  a  silken  background  in  one  spot.  The  next 
day  it  was  still  on  the  window-ledge.  About  eleven  o'clock 
it  disappeared,  and  I  hunted  and  hunted  before  I  found 
it  on  the  under  side  of  the  porch  railing!  It  was  busily 
making  its  network,  but  it  made  far  less  than  either  of  the 
others,  and  most  of  the  time  it  was  staying  quite  still. 
The  following  day,  about  noon,  it  made  its  cord,  anchor- 
ing that  at  one  end,  then  at  the  other,  and  going  back 
and  forth  to  strengthen  it.  When  the  cord  was  ready,  it 
put  its  head  through  (the  cord  was  made  ahead  of  it)  and 
wriggled  itself  into  the  cord;  it  wriggled  fully  as  hard  as 
when  yours  got  itself  out  of  its  striped  cover.  So  slowly 
and  carefully  it  made  its  way  into  place,  being  most 
careful  not  to  strain  the  cord.  We  watched  breathlessly. 
It  pushed  itself  so  far  through  that  it  was  about  half  and 
half,  and  then  it  had  to  wriggle  backward  till  its  head 
and  a  third  of  its  body  was  through,  and  two  thirds  not 
through;  and  wriggling  back  took  far  greater  care  than 
forward.  It  stayed  just  that  way,  all  huddled  up  for 
nearly  four  days,  when  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing it  split  and  divested  itself  of  its  robe.  It  is  matching 
the  brown  woodwork  like  yours,  and  there  all  three 
are! 

The  incomparable  French  natural-historian  and 
felicitous  writer  Henri  Fabre  has  witnessed  what  I 
never  have :  he  has  seen  the  caterpillar  build  its  case 
or  cocoon.  In  the  instance  which  he  describes  it  was 

43 


NATURE  LORE 

the  small  grub  of  one  of  the  Psyches.  The  first  thing 
the  creature  did  was  to  collect  bits  of  felt  or  pith 
from  the  cast-off  garment  of  its  mother.  These  it 
tied  together  with  a  thread  of  its  own  silk,  forming 
a  band,  or  girdle,  which  it  put  around  its  own  body, 
uniting  the  ends.  This  ring  was  the  start  and  founda- 
tion of  the  sack  in  which  it  was  to  incase  itself. 
The  band  was  placed  well  forward,  so  that  the  in- 
sect could  reach  its  edge  by  bending  its  head  up  and 
down  and  around  in  all  directions.  Then  it  proceeded 
to  widen  the  girdle  by  attaching  particles  of  down 
to  its  edges.  As  the  garment  grew  toward  its  head, 
the  weaver  crept  forward  in  it,  thus  causing  it  to 
cover  more  and  more  of  its  body  till  in  a  few  hours 
it  covered  all  of  it,  and  the  sack  was  complete,  a 
very  simple  process,  and,  it  would  seem,  the  only 
possible  one.  The  head,  with  the  flexible  neck, 
which  allowed  it  to  swing  through  the  circle,  was 
the  loom  that  did  the  weaving,  the  thread  issuing 
from  the  spinneret  on  the  lip.  Did  the  silk  issue  from 
the  other  end  of  the  body,  as  we  are  likely  to  think 
it  does,  the  feat  would  be  impossible.  I  suppose  a 
woman  might  knit  herself  into  her  sweater  in  the 
same  way  by  holding  the  ball  of  yarn  in  her  bosom 
and  turning  the  web  around  and  pulling  it  down 
instead  of  turning  her  body  —  all  but  her  arms; 
here  she  would  be  balked.   To  understand  how  a 
grub  weaves  itself  a  close-fitting  garment,  closed 
at  both  ends,  from  its  own  hair,  or  by  what  sleight 

49 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

of  hand  it  attaches  its  cocoon  to  the  end  of  a  branch, 
I  suppose  one  would  need  to  witness  the  process. 

In  October  these  preparations  and  transforma- 
tions in  the  insect  world  are  taking  place  all  about 
us,  and  we  regard  them  not.  The  caterpillars  are 
getting  ready  for  a  sleep  out  of  which  they  awaken 
in  the  spring  totally  different  creatures.  They  tuck 
themselves  away  under  stones  or  into  crevices,  they 
hang  themselves  on  bushes,  they  roll  themselves  up 
in  dry  leaves,  and  brave  the  cold  of  winter  in  tough 
garments,  woolly  or  silky,  of  their  own  weaving. 
Some  of  them,  as  certain  of  the  large  moths,  do 
what  seems  like  an  impossible  stunt:  they  shut 
themselves  up  inside  a  tough  case,  or  receptacle, 
and  attach  it  by  a  long,  strong  bit  of  home-made 
tape  to  the  end  of  a  twig,  so  that  it  swings  freely  in 
the  wind.  I  have  seen  the  downy  woodpecker  trying 
to  break  into  one  of  these  sealed-up,  living  tombs 
without  avail.  Its  free,  pendent  position  allows  it  to 
yield  to  the  strokes  of  the  bird,  and  all  efforts  to 
penetrate  the  case  are  in  vain. 

How  the  big,  clumsy  worm,  without  help  or  hands, 
wove  itself  into  this  bird-proof  case,  and  hung  itself 
up  at  the  end  of  a  limb,  would  be  a  problem  worth 
solving.  Of  course  it  had  its  material  all  within  its 
own  body,  so  is  not  encumbered  with  outside  tools 
or  refractory  matter.  It  was  the  result  of  a  mechan- 
ical and  a  vital  process  combined.  The  creature 
knew  how  to  use  the  means  which  Nature  had  given 

50 


NATURE  LORE 

it  for  the  purpose.  Some  of  the  caterpillars  weave  the 
chrysalis-case  out  of  the  hairs  and  wool  of  their  sum- 
mer coats,  others  out  of  silk  developed  from  within. 

On  October  mornings  I  have  had  great  pleasure 
in  turning  over  the  stones  by  the  roadside  and 
lifting  up  those  on  the  tops  of  the  stone  walls  and 
noting  the  insect-life  preparing  its  winter  quarters 
under  them.  The  caterpillars  and  spiders  are  busy. 
One  could  gather  enough  of  the  white  fine  silk  from 
spider  tents  and  cocoons  to  make  a  rope  big  enough 
to  hang  himself  with.  The  jumping  spider  may  be 
found  in  his  closely  woven  tent.  Look  at  his  head 
through  a  pocket-glass,  and  he  looks  like  a  minia- 
ture woodchuck.  His  smooth,  dark-gray,  hairy  pate 
and  two  beadlike  eyes  are  very  like;  but  his  broad, 
blunt  nose  is  unlike.  It  seems  studded  with  a  row  of 
five  or  six  jewels;  but  these  jewels  are  eyes.  What 
extra  bounty  Nature  seems  to  have  bestowed  upon 
some  of  these  humble  creatures!  We  find  our  one 
pair  of  eyes  precious;  think  what  three  or  four  pairs 
would  be  if  they  added  to  our  powers  of  vision  pro- 
portionately! But  probably  the  many-eyed  spiders 
and  the  flies  with  their  compound  eyes  see  less 
than  we  do.  This  multitude  of  eyes  seems  only  an 
awkward  device  of  Nature's  to  make  up  for  the 
movable  eye  like  our  own. 

In  some  of  the  spiders'  cocoons  under  the  stones 
on  the  tops  of  the  walls  you  will  find  masses  of  small 
pink  eggs,  expected  to  survive  the  winter,  I  suppose, 

51 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

and  hatch  out  in  the  spring.  The  under  side  of  a 
stone  on  the  top  of  a  stone  wall  seems  like  a  very- 
cold  cradle  and  nursery,  but  the  caterpillars  in  their 
shrouds  survive  here,  and  may  not  the  spiders'  eggs? 
In  October  you  will  find  the  caterpillars  in  all 
stages  of  making  ready  for  winter.  They  first  cover 
a  small  space  on  the  stone  upon  which  they  rest 
with  a  very  fine  silken  web;  it  looks  like  a  delicate 
silver  wash.  This  is  the  foundation  of  the  coming 
cocoon,  but  I  could  never  catch  any  of  them  in  the 
act  of  weaving  their  cocoons.  I  brought  one  to  the 
house  and  kept  it  under  observation  for  several 
days,  but  it  was  always  passive  whenever  I  glimpsed 
it  through  the  crack  between  the  stones.  The  nights 
were  frosty  and  the  days  chilly,  but  some  time  dur- 
ing the  twenty-four  hours  the  creature's  loom  was 
at  work.  One  morning  a  thin  veil  of  delicate  silver 
threads,  through  which  I  could  dimly  see  the  worm, 
united  the  two  stones.  It  seemed  to  be  in  the  midst 
of  a  little  thicket  of  vertical,  shining  silken  threads. 
It  was  like  some  enchantment.  A  little  later  the 
thicket,  or  veil,  had  developed  into  a  thin  cradle  in 
which  lay  the  chrysalis  and  the  cast-off  skin  of  the 
worm.  This  caterpillar  had  been  disturbed  a  good 
deal  and  made  to  waste  some  of  its  precious  silk, 
so  that  its  cocoon  was  finally  a  thin,  poor  one.  "Life 
under  a  stone"  forms  a  chapter  in  Nature's  infinite 
book  of  secrecy  which  most  persons  skip,  but  which 
is  well  worth  perusal. 


Ill 

THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

I  CALL  the  birds  familiar  in  the  sense  that  they 
make  themselves  very  much  at  home  with  us, 
and  not  in  the  sense  that  their  lives  become  an 
old  story  and  fail  to  arouse  our  interest.  It  is  a 
story  perpetually  retold,  with  endless  variations. 
After  you  have  named  them  all  and  have  made 
yourself  acquainted  with  their  various  characters 
and  habits,  your  next  walk  to  the  fields  and  woods 
or  along  the  highway  or  about  your  own  dooryard 
may  reveal  some  new  trait  in  finch  or  thrush,  or 
some  significant  incident  in  their  lives  that  kindles 
your  interest  afresh. 

The  birds  are  pioneers  that  begin  the  world  anew 
about  us  each  season,  and  their  lives  touch  and  cross 
ours  at  new  points  at  all  times.  They  are  always  the 
same  familiar  birds,  the  birds  of  our  youth,  but 
they  are  new  as  the  flowers  are  new,  as  the  spring 
and  summer  are  new,  as  each  morning  is  new.  Like 
Nature  herself  they  are  endowed  with  immortal 
youth,  and  always  present  to  us  an  endless  field  for 
fresh  observation. 

The  first  robin,  the  first  bluebird,  the  first  song 
sparrow,  the  first  phoebe,  the  first  swallow,  is  an 
event  which  we  mention  to  our  neighbor,  or  write 

53 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

in  our  letters  to  our  friends.  It  is  an  old  story  with 
a  new  interest.  The  birds  have  lived,  and  we  have 
lived  to  meet  again  the  old  scenes.  They  bring  us 
once  more  the  assurance  of  the  unfailing  return  of 
spring,  and  the  never-ending  joy  and  fecundity  of 
life.  Many  of  them  are  very  likely  the  identical 
robins  or  song  sparrows  that  charmed  us  last  sea- 
son, but  they  come  back  to  us  with  a  new  story  to 
tell,  and  new  service  to  render.  They  have  passed 
the  winter  in  strange  lands,  and  we  may  have  done 
so,  too;  but  now,  on  the  home  acres,  our  lives  meet 
and  mingle  once  more. 

Does  that  brief  visitation  in  May  of  the  rarer 
warblers  ever  become  an  old  story  .^^  We  do  not  see 
them  when  they  come,  nor  when  they  depart;  they 
are  here  eagerly  feeding  in  the  trees  in  the  morning 
as  if  they  dropped  down  out  of  heaven  with  the 
rising  sun,  as  doubtless  they  did;  and  they  are  gone 
in  a  day  or  two,  as  if  they  had  vanished  again  in 
the  heavens  at  the  going-down  of  the  sun,  as  is 
very  surely  the  case.  All  night  they  travel  through 
the  trackless  upper  air  above  the  sleeping  earth, 
their  pole-star  the  breeding-impulse.  Unfavorable 
weather  conditions  will  cause  them  to  tarry  longer 
with  us  some  seasons  than  others.  This  season 
(1916)  the  bay-breasted,  the  Blackburnian,  and 
the  Canada  warblers  lingered  nearly  a  week  with 
us,  and  the  veery,  or  Wilson's  thrush,  lingered  and 
sang  in  unwonted  places. 

54 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

Yesterday  I  walked  in  my  neighbor's  woods  and 
orchards  and  saw  many  of  these  passing  warblers  — 
the  bay-breasted,  the  black-capped,  the  magnolia, 
the  black-throated  blue,  and  others.  How  fresh  they 
looked!  They  seemed  just  to  have  stepped  out  of 
Audubon.  They  conferred  a  new  dignity  upon  the 
trees  —  those  old,  commonplace  scenes,  and  then 
this  touch  of  art  and  science  and  literature,  how 
novel  it  was !  The  male  scarlet  tanager  down  in  the 
ploughed  field  —  a  vivid  bit  of  color  upon  the  brown 
earth,  how  it  delighted  the  eye !  A  cuckoo  called  and 
called  in  a  maple,  and  then  launched  out  in  the  air 
and  flew  down  the  hill,  its  long  tail,  its  slender 
body,  its  thin  wings,  and  its  characteristic  move- 
ments how  strange  when  contrasted  with  the  other 
birds,  so  different  from  them  all!  A  robin  made 
a  drive  at  it  in  the  tree,  which  is  a  hint  that  the 
cuckoo  is  a  criminal  among  the  birds,  probably  at 
times  destroying  their  eggs,  as  has  been  alleged  of  it. 

Do  we  ever  outgrow  the  charm  and  the  wonder 
of  the  first  song  sparrow's  nest  on  the  ground, 
tucked  away  under  the  grass,  or  hidden  under  a 
mossy  bank  —  a  bit  of  the  waste  and  litter  of  the 
great  crude  out-of-doors  taking  such  neat  and 
pretty  shape,  and  holding  such  delicate,  pearl-like 
bodies?  Can  we  behold  it  without  a  fresh  thrill  of 
pleasure?  The  rough,  unkempt  field  or  roadside,  and 
in  its  midst  this  delicate,  living  treasure  which  a 
passing  foot  may  crush,  or  some  prowling  enemy 

55 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

destroy.  What  trust,  what  peril,  what  artless  art 
it  all  suggests!  The  April  or  May  day  when  I  find 
a  song  sparrow's  nest  has  a  touch  that  the  other 
days  do  not  have;  and  if  a  spring  goes  by  without 
my  finding  one  or  more,  I  miss  something  from  my 
life.  It  is  not  usually  by  searching  that  we  find  a 
sparrow's  nest;  it  is  by  accident,  or  by  watchful 
waiting. 

The  past  season  I  found  my  first  treasure  by 
watchful  waiting.  I  have  found  scores  of  the  nests 
of  this  familiar  dooryard  songster,  but  none  that 
ever  gave  me  more  pleasure  than  this  one.  The 
cautious  little  ground-builder  betrayed  the  secret 
of  her  nest  to  me  when,  humanly  speaking,  she 
thought  she  was  securely  keeping  it.  I  knew  there 
was  a  nest  near  my  study  by  the  song  of  the  male 
on  the  trees  and  bushes  around  me,  and  had  made 
some  search  for  it,  but  without  avail.  One  must  first 
have  some  sort  of  a  clue  to  a  nest.  As  I  sat  here  in 
the  summer-house  one  afternoon  with  only  the 
most  vague  thoughts  about  birds,  I  chanced  to  see 
a  song  sparrow  flit  out  of  the  grass  near  the  border 
of  the  just-ploughed  vineyard,  alight  upon  the 
freshly  turned  earth,  and  in  a  fussy,  nervous  way 
go  hunting  about  for  food.  Have  you  ever  seen  a 
setting  hen  come  off  the  nest  to  feed,  and  noted  how 
she  fluffs  out  her  feathers,  flirts  her  tail,  and  hurries 
about  as  if  in  ill-humor?  My  little  hen  sparrow  acted 
in  the  same  way,  and  I  instantly  inferred  that  she 

56 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

had  just  left  her  nest  in  the  grass  a  few  yards  below 
me.  She  fussed  about  on  the  ground  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  then  flew  away,  and  disappeared  in  the 
vineyard.  In  ten  minutes  or  so  she  returned  to  the 
bit  of  ploughed  ground  where  I  first  saw  her,  and 
went  through  the  same  fussy,  nervous  manoeuvres 
as  at  first.  Then  she  came  up  to  a  rosebush  quite 
near  me  and  occupied  herself  there  for  a  few  seconds, 
hopping  about  amid  the  branches,  and  going  down 
to  the  ground  as  if  in  quest  of  food,  mindful  all  the 
time,  I  could  see,  of  my  presence.  Then  she  flew 
back  to  the  ploughed  land  again,  and  hopped  about, 
very  watchful  and  suspicious,  it  seemed  to  me.  She 
then  came  a  few  feet  up  into  the  grass  and  alighted 
on  a  small,  dry  maple-branch  that  had  fallen  from 
the  trees  above.  Here  she  flirted  and  attitudinized 
a  moment  or  two,  and  then  came  to  the  rosebush 
again  and  repeated  her  former  movements;  then 
back  to  the  ploughed  ground,  then  to  the  dry  branch, 
where  she  sat  still  and  considered  a  moment,  and 
then  hopped  down  in  the  grass  and  disappeared 
from  my  view.  As  she  did  not  again  appear,  I  knew 
she  had  gone  to  her  nest.  Presently  I  moved  down 
there  very  carefully,  and,  scanning  the  ground 
closely,  lest  I  step  on  the  nest,  I  began  the  search. 
When  I  was  within  a  yard  of  the  nest,  which  proved 
to  be  completely  hidden,  I  heard  a  rustle  in  some 
dry  leaves,  and  saw  a  rapidly  moving  line  of  shaking 
grass-stems  as  the  bird  ran  from  her  nest.  Then  I 

57 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

concentrated  my  gaze  upon  the  ground  and  searched 
it  inch  by  inch,  but  no  nest  could  I  see.  Orchard 
grass  grew  there  in  tussocks  or  stools,  and  on  the 
lower  side  of  these  stools  the  dry  grass  of  last  year 
sloped  down,  forming  a  little  thatched  roof  about 
their  bases;  beneath  one  of  these  there  seemed  to  be 
a  slight  opening;  I  thrust  in  my  finger  and  felt  the 
nest,  and  touched  the  warm  eggs.  Never  have  I  seen 
a  more  cozy,  or  cunningly  constructed  sparrow*s 
nest.  No  rain  could  touch  it,  and  no  eye  penetrate 
its  secret. 

Last  season  my  sparrow  neighbors  built  in  the 
heart  of  currant-bushes  and  rosebushes,  but  this 
spring  one  of  them  at  least  has  trusted  her  secret 
to  the  keeping  of  the  grass,  and,  as  it  has  turned 
out,  has  had  no  occasion  to  regret  it.  In  due  time 
she  brought  off  her  brood,  and  later  in  the  season 
succeeded  again  farther  down  the  hill. 

A  week  or  two  later,  in  walking  along  a  secluded, 
bushy  lane  leading  to  the  woods,  which  has  been  a 
favorite  walk  of  mine  for  more  than  forty  years,  I 
chanced  upon  another  secret  treasure  open  to  the 
eye  of  heaven,  which  gave  me  a  degree  of  pleasure 
greater  than  any  other  single  incident  which  my 
forty  years'  acquaintance  with  the  old  lane  had 
brought  me.  Encircled  by  the  stalks  of  a  tall-grow- 
ing weed,  I  chanced  to  see  upon  the  ground  a  deep, 
bulky,  beautifully  formed  nest.  It  was  a  mass  of 

58 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

dry  leaves  and  grasses,  with  an  unusually  deep  and 
smooth  cavity  lined  with  very  fine  vegetable  fibre 
that  looked  like  gold  thread.  Evidently  a  finished 
nest,  I  thought,  but  it  was  empty,  and  there  were 
no  birds  about.  It  did  not  have  the  appearance  of 
a  nest  that  had  been  "harried,"  as  the  Scotch  boys 
say,  but  of  one  just  that  moment  finished  and  wait- 
ing for  its  first  egg.  A  week  later  I  returned  to  the 
place  and  was  delighted  to  find  that  it  was  really  a 
live  nest.  The  setting  bird  had  slipped  off  on  my 
approach  so  slyly  that  I  had  not  seen  her.  The  nest 
contained  four  small,  delicate  white  eggs  marked 
with  fine  black  specks  on  their  larger  ends;  these 
were  completely   dominated  by   a  large,   vulgar- 
looking  cowbird's  egg.  Presently  two  anxious  birds, 
one  of  them  strikingly  marked  with  yellow,  black, 
white,  and  blue-gray,  appeared  in  the  branches 
above    my   head,    and   began   peering   nervously 
down  upon  me  and  uttering  a  faint  "sip,"  "sip." 
"Warblers,"  I  said;  and,  as  they  flitted  excitedly 
about  me,   I  soon  recognized  the  golden-winged 
warbler  —  a  rare  bird  in  my  locality,  and  one  whose 
nest  I  had  never  before  seen.  "What  a  pretty  co- 
incidence,"   I   said  —  "the   nest   of    the   golden- 
winged  warbler  at  the  foot  of  a  clump  of  goldenrod, 
and  lined  with  gold  thread!"  The  old,  neglected 
farm  lane  had  never  before  yielded  me  such  a 
treasure.  Presently  a  male  chestnut-sided  warbler, 
whose  song  I  had  been  hearing  near  by  —  "This, 

59 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

this,  this,  is  me,  sir  "  —  came  and  joined  the  golden- 
wings,  and  appeared  to  share  their  soUcitude,  but, 
after  he  had  inspected  me  from  all  sides,  moved  off 
in  the  higher  trees  and  resumed  his  singing, 

"  Your  nest  is  not  far  off,'*  I  said,  "and  maybe  in 
some  lucky  moment  I  shall  find  that  also.'* 

What  a  touch  these  delicate  and  striking  war- 
blers gave  to  the  old  lane !  It  was  like  a  page  from 
Audubon  or  Wilson. 

The  golden-wings,  much  agitated,  kept  up  their 
flitting  about  me  till  I  withdrew.  A  week  later  I 
returned  and  found  the  eggs  all  hatched,  probably 
a  day  or  two  before  my  return;  and  the  big,  pot- 
bellied cowbird  fairly  ingulfed  the  frail  little  war- 
blers. Up  came  its  head  with  its  wide-open  mouth 
quivering  with  eagerness.  I  saw  at  a  glance  what 
would  soon  be  the  fate  of  those  delicate  baby 
warblers;  they  would  be  overridden  and  starved  or 
smothered  in  less  than  three  days.  So  I  took  the 
naked,  ungainly  interloper  in  my  hand  and  resumed 
my  walk  through  the  bushy  fields,  hoping  to  find 
the  nest  of  some  larger  bird  with  young  in  it,  in 
which  I  might  place  it,  and  watch  the  result.  I 
considered  myself  lucky  when  I  found  what  I  took 
to  be  a  Savannah  sparrow's  nest  with  the  young 
nearly  half  grown.  How  closely  they  pressed  them- 
selves down  in  the  nest  and  made  no  sign!  When 
I  put  the  little  beggar  of  a  cowbird  down  in  their 
midst,    they  remained   as   silent   and   motionless 

60 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

as  ever.  It  proceeded  to  creep  about  over  them, 
every  moment  or  two  thrusting  up  its  mouth  for 
food.  Will  the  mother  sparrow  adopt  this  bantling, 
I  wonder,  and  feed  it?  I  had  my  doubts.  The  next 
day  I  returned  and  found  it  still  crawling  and 
sprawling  about  on  the  backs  of  its  bedfellows,  and 
evidently  very  hungry.  It  thrust  up  its  appealing 
mouth  regularly  twice  each  minute  during  the  six 
minutes  I  watched  it.  Evidently  it  had  had  no  share 
in  the  bounty  of  the  nest.  Its  body  had  a  throbbing 
movement,  like  a  child  with  hiccough.  I  regret  now 
that  I  did  not  feed  it  myself,  and  continue  each 
day  to  do  so,  in  order  to  study  further  the  out- 
come. I  returned  the  next  morning  and  found  the 
poor  thing  beneath  the  heap  this  time,  and  quite 
dead. 

As  I  proceeded  to  remove  its  limp  and  shrunken 
body,  the  young  sparrows  suddenly  took  alarm 
and,  with  their  wing-quills  only  mere  stubs, 
scrambled  out  of  the  nest  and  struggled  off  in  the 
grass  and  weeds.  I  gathered  them  together  and  put 
them  back  in  the  nest,  but  they  would  not  stay. 
Out  they  floundered  again  as  soon  as  my  hand  was 
withdrawn.  It  is  always  so;  when  young  birds  once 
leave  the  nest,  the  movement  is  final.  It  is  the  word 
of  Fate;  they  will  not  be  put  back.  They  defile  the 
nest  as  they  leave,  and  that  act  is  a  contemptuous 
farewell. 

Haste  to  leave  the  nest  is  characteristic  of  all 

61 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

birds.  Their  enemies  are  so  many,  and  the  young 
are  so  defenseless,  that  the  sooner  they  get  out  and 
scatter  and  hide,  the  better  it  is  for  them.  My  spar- 
rows would  doubtless  have  remained  several  days 
yet  had  not  my  blundering  experiment  hastened 
matters.  I  had  set  in  action  the  force  of  a  natural 
instinct  before  the  conditions  were  quite  ripe  for  it. 

Less  than  one  hundred  yards  from  the  sparrow's 
nest  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  the  nest  of  a 
yellow-breasted  chat,  one  of  the  shyest  and  most 
elusive  of  our  birds.  The  catbird,  the  die  wink,  and 
the  brown  thrasher,  all  skulkers  and  hiders,  do 
not  approach  the  chat  in  this  respect.  It  haunts 
low,  bushy  fields  and  tangled,  swampy  retreats, 
whence,  in  May  and  June,  issue  the  strange,  inter- 
rupted, polyglot  cat-calls  of  the  male.  But  to  see 
him  or  his  mate,  you  have  got  to  out-skulk  him,  and 
that  is  no  easy  task.  He  is  a  fine,  strong-looking 
bird,  with  his  deep  olive-green  coat  and  yellow 
breast  and  black,  curved  bill,  and  black  feet  and 
legs.  He  is  one  of  the  hide-and-seek  birds.  His  weird 
calls  have  a  tantalizing  air  of  secrecy  and  elusive- 
ness,  as  if  to  challenge  your  curiosity,  changing  from 
the  quack  of  a  duck  to  the  mew  of  a  cat  or  the  caw 
of  a  crow  or  the  bark  of  a  fox  or  the  rattle  of  the 
kingfisher. 

When  you  penetrate  his  retreat  he  suddenly 
ceases  and  begins  manoeuvring  to  see  you  without 
being  seen.  In  the  present  case  I  knew  a  pair  had 

62 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

a  nest  in  the  corner  of  the  bushy  lot  that  held  the 
sparrow's  nest,  because  I  had  heard  the  male  send- 
ing forth  his  polyglot  challenge  from  that  vicinity 
on  several  occasions,  and  twice  had  I  ransacked  that 
part  of  the  field  and  the  bushy  border  of  the  adjoin- 
ing field  pretty  thoroughly.  On  this  day,  which  was 
a  wet  one,  I  renewed  the  search,  beating  through  the 
low  growths  of  sumac  and  witch-hazel  and  scrub 
oak  very  carefully.  As  I  reached  the  corner  of  the 
field,  where  my  course  was  barred  by  an  old  stone 
fence,  I  paused  and  was  about  turning  back,  saying 
to  myself  regretfully  and  half  audibly,  "I  should 
like  to  find  that  nest,"  when,  turning  around,  I  spied 
the  nest  in  a  hazel-bush  not  five  feet  from  me.  The 
setting  bird  slipped  off  as  my  eye  caught  her  nest, 
and  silently  disappeared  in  the  bushes.  In  a  mo- 
ment more,  and  while  I  was  inspecting  the  nest,  she 
appeared  fifteen  feet  away  and  uttered  a  sharp, 
harsh,  feline  mew.  But  her  mate  did  not  show  him- 
self, nor  did  he  during  any  of  my  subsequent  visits. 
I  often  heard  him  sending  forth  his  unbirdlike  calls 
from   the  bushes,  but   never  once  did  I  lay  eyes 
upon  him,  though  I  tried  hard  to  do  so. 

The  nest  was  quite  a  massive  structure  in  the  forks 
of  a  hazel-bush,  about  four  feet  from  the  ground; 
it  held  four  handsome,  speckled  eggs.  I  should  Kke 
to  have  put  my  young  cowbird  in  such  a  nest,  could 
I  have  found  it  at  the  right  moment,  and  watched 
the  result. 

63 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

This  nest  prospered;  the  young  were  out  in  due 
time,  but  not  once  did  I  see  or  hear  young  or  old 
after  the  nest  was  empty. 

The  shyness  of  the  chat  is  instinctive.  There  is  no 
more  reason,  in  the  conditions  of  its  life,  why  it 
should  be  so  secretive  than  there  is  in  those  of  scores 
of  other  birds.  Its  enemies  are  those  common  to  its 
neighbors;  but  its  reluctance  to  reveal  itself  to  the 
human  eye  is  phenomenal,  though  I  dare  say  that 
men  have  never  yet  done  it  or  its  forbears  any  harm. 
There  is  reason  for  the  shyness  of  game-birds,  and 
for  the  care  with  which  most  birds  try  to  conceal 
their  nests,  but  I  can  see  none  for  this  curious  obses- 
sion of  the  chat's.  A  friend  of  mine,  a  psychiatrist, 
to  whom  I  mentioned  this  suspicious  conduct  of  the 
chat's,  suggested  that  he  is  the  paranoiac  among 
the  birds,  with  systematized  delusions  of  harm  and 
persecution,  his  warped  egotism  making  him  be- 
lieve that  every  man's  hand  is  raised  against  him, 
when  there  is  no  ground  for  such  a  fear. 

The  chat  has  the  wisdom  common  to  many  other 
birds  of  not  building  its  nest  in  the  densest  and  most 
secluded  part  of  its  haunts,  but  of  selecting  a  place 
along  their  more  open  edges,  where  it  can  the  better 
command  the  approaches.  It  seems  to  be  a  hardy, 
prolific  bird,  yet  its  numbers  are  very  limited.  One 
pair  in  a  neighborhood  is  probably  above  the  aver- 
age. To  most  country  people  the  bird  is  an  entire 
stranger. 

64 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

In  the  woods  beyond  the  chat's  nest  one  of  my 
boy  friends  conducted  me  to  a  nest  on  the  ground 
beside  the  path,  which  he  had  recently  found.  He 
did  not  know  the  bird's  name,  but  from  his  descrip- 
tion, and  especially  from  his  statement  that  the 
bird  walked,  I  was  sure  he  had  found  the  nest  of  an 
oven-bird,  or  the  wood  accentor.  And  when  I  saw  it 
tucked  under  the  dry  grass  and  leaves  so  that  they 
made  a  canopy  over  it,  the   half-fledged  young 
barely  visible  in  the  dim  recess,  I  was  as  pleased  as 
if  I  were  seeing  the  oven-bird's  nest  for  the  first 
time.  In  a  moment  the  mother  bird  appeared,  not 
blustering  about  with  distressed  cries,  but  silently 
dragging  herself  over  the  ground  with  spread  wings 
and  tail  and  an  utterly  decrepit  and  despairing 
look.  I  have  rarely  seen  a  mother  bird  present  so 
pitiful  a  sight.  It  was  a  silent  pantomime  that  was 
more  eloquent  than  cries.  Round  and  round  she 
went,  appearing  and  disappearing,  only  a  few  feet 
from  us,  now  on  this  side,  now  on  that,  and  be- 
seeching and  abjuring  us  to  content  ourselves  with 
coming  and  picking  her  up  and  leaving  her  precious 
young  alone.  Never  did  a  mother  offer  to  sacrifice 
herself  for  her  offspring  more  freely  than  did  this 
little    brown-backed,   speckle-breasted   bird.    Her 
silent   agony  soon  had   its   effect   on  us   and  we 
withdrew.  A  few  days  more  and  her  young  will  find 
their  wings. 


65 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

Bird-life  is  the  fullest  and  most  intense  during 
the  mating  and  nesting  season.  Love  or  war,  court- 
ing or  "scrapping,'*  rule  their  activities.  What  jeal- 
ousies and  rivalries,  what  warring  and  winning,  go 
on  all  about  us !  The  birds  are  all  glad  and  mad  at 
the  same  moment. 

One  morning  in  April  I  heard  the  excited  voices 
of  bluebirds  and  robins  in  the  vineyard  below  me; 
going  down  there,  I  saw  a  pair  of  bluebirds  and  a 
pair  of  robins  flitting  about  and  perching  on  the 
wires  and  posts  in  an  angry  and  excited  frame  of 
mind.  Some  of  their  movements  and  gestures  sug- 
gested that  they  were  "scrapping."  "  But  why  should 
bluebirds  and  robins  *  scrap '?  "  I  asked  myself.  I  had 
never  seen  them  do  such  a  thing,  so  I  began  looking 
about  for  a  common  enemy,  and  expected  to  find  a 
cat  skulking  in  a  ditch  there,  or  maybe  a  snake. 
But  I  could  find  neither;  still  the  excited  and  accus- 
ing voices  kept  it  up.  Then  I  chanced  to  see  some 
dry  grass  and  weed-stalks  hanging  down  from  a 
grape-post  which  was  splintered  and  broken  at  the 
top.  I  found  that  the  robins  were  building  a  nest 
there  in  a  ragged  depression  on  the  top  of  the  post, 
and  that  a  foot  and  a  half  lower  down  the  bluebirds 
had  preempted  a  downy  woodpecker's  old  hole,  and 
were  making  a  nest  there.  The  fracas  was  explained; 
neither  pair  of  birds  wanted  the  other  such  near 
neighbors.  Each  looked  upon  the  post  as  its  own.  I 
saw  that  the  robins  had  made  a  bad  choice;  no  cover 

66 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

or  screen  of  any  kind.  The  first  fish  crow  that  flew 
over  in  egging  time  would  see  the  nest  and  rifle  it 
promptly.  I  would  I  could  have  told  the  mother 
robin  of  the  dangerous  site  of  her  nest.  A  week  or 
ten  days  later  I  saw  her  brooding  her  eggs  in  appar- 
ent security,  but  not  long  afterward  I  found  her 
gone  and  her  nest  empty  and  torn;  but  as  I  put  my 
hand  in  the  post,  out  went  the  mother  bluebird. 
The  crows  and  jays  could  not  reach  her,  and  she  was 
right  in  claiming  the  post  as  alone  suited  to  her 
needs.  Birds  have  their  troubles  as  well  as  we 
featherless  bipeds. 

In  May  the  jays  are  out  on  their  egging  expedi- 
tions in  the  groves  and  orchards.  I  see  two  or  three 
together  sneaking  about  —  not  graceful  flyers,  or 
very  pleasing  birds  in  summer,  but  in  winter  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  see  them.  Most  other  birds  seem  to 
know  them  as  thieves  and  robbers.  Yesterday  one 
alighted  on  a  post  in  the  vineyard  below  me  and 
sat  quietly  taking  his  bearings.  Suddenly  a  robin 
came  from  ambush  somewhere  and  made  a  vicious 
pass  at  him.  The  jay  squatted  to  avoid  the  blow, 
and  uttered  his  ugly  "Scat!"  The  robin  took  his 
stand  near  by  and  watched  him.  The  jay  flew  to  a 
near-by  apple-tree,  and  the  robin  shot  in  after  him 
very  savagely.  The  jay  soon  flew  down  toward  the 
river.  I  think  that  the  robin  does  not  quite  hit  the 
jay  on  such  occasions,  but  her  angry  tone  and  threat- 
ening manner  make  the  thief  know  that  she  is  aware 

67 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

of  his  purpose.  Cry  "Thief!"  loud  enough,  and  the 
thief  is  very  apt  to  take  to  his  heels. 

Most  of  the  birds  are  in  a  more  or  less  explosive 
mood  in  the  nesting-season.  They  alternate  between 
love  and  anger  many  times  a  day.  Each  bird  in 
nesting-time  has  its  little  domain,  and  is  jealous  of 
all  trespassers.  A  male  wood  thrush  quite  early  in 
May  seemed  to  lay  claim  to  an  old  apple-tree  near 
the  house  where  a  brood  of  thrushes  were  reared 
last  year.  He  made  his  headquarters  in  that  tree, 
waiting,  I  fancied,  for  his  mate  to  arrive,  and  be- 
having in  a  decidedly  unfriendly  way  to  every  robin 
that  invaded  his  precinct.  For  days  I  saw  him 
"scrapping"  with  robins  in  and  around  that  tree. 
The  robins,  innocent  intruders,  were  taken  by 
surprise. 

"What  is  that  speckle-breasted  dandy  so  red- 
hot  about.''"  their  manners  seemed  to  say.  The 
thrush  would  charge  the  robins  spitefully,  and  fol- 
low them  into  the  garden  with  his  threatening  ges- 
tures and  sharp  "Quit,  quit,  quit!"  He  would  al- 
ways give  way  when  the  robin  turned  upon  him, 
feeling  apparently  that  in  a  trial  of  rude  strength  a 
poet  like  himself  was  no  match  for  a  plebeian  mud- 
dauber  like  the  robin.  But  he  would  return  to  the 
charge,  and  keep  up  his  pretty,  graceful  protests 
whenever  his  tree  was  invaded.  Finally  his  mate,  or 
another  female,  came,  and  the  two  now  have  a  nest 
there,  and  all  seems  well  with  them.  But  the  male 

68 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

has  a  rent  in  his  brown  coat,  and  a  feather  is  missing 
from  his  waistcoat,  reveaUng  the  dark-gray  Hning, 
and  giving  him  just  a  suspicion  of  shabbiness.  I  am 
wondering  if  some  indignant  robin  could  not  tell 
how  he  came  by  these  blemishes. 

This  particular  male  thrush,  by  the  way,  has  the 
most  robin-like  note  I  have  ever  heard  come  from 
a  wood  thrush.  Often  his  "Fip,  fip,  fip,'*  is  so  like 
the  robin's  that  I  have  to  look  to  see  which  bird  it  is. 

When  the  female  had  been  here  a  few  days  I  fre- 
quently saw  the  pair  inspecting  a  fork  near  the  end 
of  a  low  branch  of  the  apple-tree;  they  were  evi- 
dently considering  it  as  a  likely  place  for  a  nest. 
Then  one  morning  I  saw  the  female  bring  a  piece  of 
white  paper  and  place  it  in  the  fork  and  sit  down 
upon  it.  She  went  through  this  performance  several 
times  without  making  any  progress.  Once  I  saw  a 
sheet  of  note-paper  dancing  around  on  the  gravel 
path  in  a  most  extraordinary  manner,  and  presently 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  thrush  beneath  it,  holding  one 
edge  of  it  in  her  beak,  and  trying  hard  to  get  such 
control  of  it  as  to  enable  her  to  carry  it  to  her  nest. 
But  the  problem  was  too  much  for  her.  After  I  had 
torn  the  sheet  in  strips  she  took  them  one  by  one  to 
the  branch  in  the  apple-tree,  determined  that  her 
domicile  should  have  a  paper  foundation.  But  she 
could  not  make  the  paper  "stay  put";  it  quickly 
fell  to  the  ground.  She  would  peer  down  upon  the 
fallen  fragments  in  a  curious,  helpless  way,  but 

69 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

made  no  attempt  to  recover  them  from  the  wet 
grass.  When  white  paper  is  not  available,  the  thrush 
usually  starts  her  nest  with  dry  maple  leaves;  she 
rejects  newspapers  and  colored  papers  of  all  kinds. 
It  is  probably  the  printer's  ink,  and  not  the  politics 
of  the  newspaper,  that  causes  her  to  reject  its  frag- 
ments. 

The  next  day  my  thrushes  abandoned  the  site 
where  the  paper  acted  so  contrarily,  and  began  a  nest 
higher  up  in  the  tree,  saddling  it  on  a  large,  hori- 
zontal branch,  but  still  weaving  a  piece  of  white 
paper  in  its  foundation.  Here  the  pair  prospered, 
and  by  the  middle  of  June  brought  forth  their 
brood  of  three  young.  In  a  warmer  season  they 
would  doubtless  have  had  four. 

On  the  same  wet  morning,  while  on  my  way  to 
the  post-office,  in  the  rain,  I  saw  a  wood  thrush 
flying  through  the  dripping  trees  and  bushes  with 
a  large  piece  of  white  paper  in  her  beak.  "Another 
home  being  started  on  a  paper  foundation,"  I  said, 
"and  on  a  wet  morning,  at  that."  I  followed  the 
bird  with  my  eye  and  saw  her  fly  to  the  top  of  a 
tall  white  elder-bush  and  place  the  paper  in  the 
forking  branches.  I  tarried  while  she  flew  over  to- 
ward the  grocery-store  for  more  material.  Presently 
she  came  back  with  a  long,  ragged  piece  of  paper 
that  trailed  behind  her  like  a  banner.  As  she  flew 
through  the  tops  of  the  bushes  with  her  burden,  it 
caught  on  a  limb  and  fell  to  the  ground.  She  dived 

70 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

down  to  recover  it,  but  failed  in  her  attempt.  The 
following  day  I  saw  quite  a  mass  of  white  paper  in 
the  tall  elder-bush,  but  the  nest  made  no  further 
progress,  and  the  pair  chose  another  site.  I  say  the 
pair,  but  in  reality  I  think  the  female  alone  selects 
the  site.  Her  actions  on  such  occasions  seem  much 
the  more  purposeful  and  decided.  The  male  attends 
her,  but  never,  to  my  knowledge,  lends  a  hand  in 
nest-building.  When  the  young  are  out,  he  does  his 
share  in  feeding  them. 

I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  why  certain  birds  have 
such  a  penchant  for  something  white  woven  into,  or 
placed  on  the  outside  of,  their  nests.  A  robin  will 
reject  bits  of  colored  paper,  but  will  often  use  strips 
of  white  paper  or  white  rags.  One  in  the  vines  of  a 
near-by  shed  has  made  very  free  use  of  the  cast-off 
hair  of  our  old  gray  horse,  nearly  white.  A  robin's 
nest  here  in  the  summer-house  has  a  long  strip  of 
white  silk  paper.  On  a  friend's  house  in  a  Michigan 
city  I  saw  more  than  a  yard  of  candle-wick  dangling 
from  an  unfinished  nest.  Even  the  sly  catbird  likes  a 
bit  of  white  paper  in  her  nest.  Nearly  all  the  vireos 
have  a  habit  of  sticking  bits  of  white  material  on 
the  outside  of  their  nests,  usually  the  weavings  of 
cocoons  of  spiders. 

One  day,  high  in  the  branches  of  an  elm  that 
shaded  a  village  street,  I  saw  a  yellow-throated 
vireo  at  work  on  her  nest.  She  was  evidently 
in  want  of  the  white,  felty  bits  of  spiders'  co- 

71 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

coons  to  bedeck  the  outside,  and  was  duped  by  a 
white  rosebush  that  was  dropping  its  petals  in  a 
near-by  dooryard.  I  saw  white  rose-petals  on  the 
ground  under  the  nest,  and  wondered  where  they 
came  from.  Keeping  my  eye  on  the  bird,  I  saw  her 
fly  down,  to  the  rosebush,  seize  a  petal  and  fly  up  to 
her  nest,  and  try  to  make  it  stick  to  the  outside. 
But  it  was  not  fuzzy  or  woolly  like  the  spider's  ma- 
terial, and  would  not  stick;  it  quickly  came  sailing 
down  to  the  ground.  Time  after  time  I  saw  the  bird 
carry  up  rose-petals  to  her  nest,  only  to  see  them 
fall  back  to  the  ground.  She  seemed  to  have  no  judg- 
ment in  the  matter;  the  size  and  the  color  of  the 
petals  were  all  right,  but  their  texture  was  not  of 
the  right  kind.  I  think  she  finally  gave  up  the 
attempt  to  make  use  of  them. 

Do  these  patches  on  the  side  of  the  dark-gray 
nest  of  the  vireo  help  to  conceal  it — a  kind  of 
instinctive  camouflage?  They  help  give  it  a  mot- 
tled appearance,  and  in  the  flickering  light  and 
shade  of  the  tree-tops  they  may  help  to  render  it 
less  noticeable,  though  only  to  eyes  underneath 
it.  A  crow  or  a  jay,  the  bird's  arch  enemies, 
would  not  be  misled  by  them. 

It  is  always  interesting  to  me  to  see  the  young 
birds  leave  their  nest.  It  is,  as  I  have  just  said,  gener- 
ally an  irrevocable  step;  they  very  rarely  go  back  — 
young  swallows,  however,  perhaps  more  frequently 

72 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

than  other  birds  do  go  back.  The  nest  is  in  no  sense  a 
home,  but  a  nursery  for  a  brief  period.  Most  of  our 
birds  who  bring  off  a  second  brood  build  a  second 
nest,  though  a  robin  will  occasionally  re-line  and 
otherwise  patch  up  an  old  nest.  Nesting  birds  leave 
the  nest  one  by  one,  sometimes  at  intervals  of  an 
hour  or  two;  at  others,  of  a  day  or  more.  A  brood  of 
three  young  bluebirds  recently  left  the  nest  in  a  box 
on  the  corner  of  my  porch  between  seven  and  ten 
o'clock.  The  day  before,  they  began  to  appear  in  the 
opening,  and  to  look  out  upon  the  bright  summer 
landscape  and  chirp;  now  and  then  a  wing  was 
thrust  out  and  exercised  for  a  moment  —  probably 
no  bird  leaves  its  nest  till  it  has  flapped  its  wings  a 
little.  On  the  morning  of  the  exodus,  the  young  were 
more  than  usually  restless  and  loud  and  persistent 
in  their  calls  to  their  parents.  The  parents  in  turn 
called  to  them  in  a  new  way;  it  was  the  plaintive, 
far-away  call  that  the  birds  utter  on  their  arrival  in 
spring,  and  that  they  send  forth  when  apparently 
starting  on  a  long  flight.  The  young  answered  back 
in  the  same  tone  —  "pure,  pure,"  as  if  on  the  eve 
of  a  great  adventure.  Presently  the  bird  that  sat 
in  the  opening  fluttered  out  and  clung  to  the  out- 
side of  the  box,  where  it  remained  clinging  and 
calling  for  a  minute  or  more.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
impulse,  it  let  go  its  hold  and  flew  straight  to  the 
branches  of  an  apple-tree  fifty  or  sixty  feet  away.  It 
was  a  successful  flight,  and  a  successful  alighting. 

73 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

One  of  the  parent  birds  was  on  hand  instantly, 
uttering  an  approving  or  an  encouraging  note,  or 
maybe  only  a  note  of  solicitude.  In  the  course  of 
two  or  three  hours  the  two  other  birds  left  the  nest 
in  a  similar  manner,  except  that  there  was  no  pre- 
liminary chnging  to  the  outside  —  they  flew  straight 
from  the  opening  to  the  old  apple-tree,  and  the  next 
day  were  drifting  about  the  orchard  with  their 
parents.  By  fall  or  before,  they  will  probably  join 
the  earlier  brood,  which  I  think  still  lingers  in  this 
vicinity,  and  the  united  families  in  a  loose  flock  will 
drift  about  this  part  of  the  country. 

In  June  I  saw  a  brood  of  young  wood  thrushes 
leave  the  nest.  In  all  cases  there  seems  to  be  one 
bird  a  little  more  forward  than  the  others.  In  this 
case  one  of  the  young  thrushes  perched  on  the  edge 
of  the  nest  for  a  few  minutes  and  chirruped.  Then, 
in  a  blundering  way,  apparently  more  by  accident 
than  design,  it  reached  the  big  branch  upon  which 
the  nest  was  saddled.  After  a  while  it  flew  a  few 
feet  to  another  branch.  The  two  others,  after  similar 
manoeuvring,  joined  it  in  the  course  of  the  day,  but 
neither  of  them  left  the  apple-tree  on  that  day.  At 
night  there  was  a  heavy  thunder-shower  with  vio- 
lent wind,  and  in  the  morning  two  of  the  young 
thrushes  were  back  in  the  nest.  So,  under  excep- 
tional circumstances,  young  birds  do  return  to  the 
nest.  If  they  had  left  the  tree,  it  is  quite  certain  they 
would  not  have  taken  refuge  in  the  nest.  But  the 

74 


THE  FAMILIAR  BIRDS 

fury  of  the  elements  made  them  turn  to  the  old 
cradle;  and  very  human-like  they  were  in  so  do- 
ing. During  the  day  they  left  its  protecting  arms, 
never  to  return. 

One  season  a  brood  of  house  wrens  on  the  corner 
of  the  veranda  all  left  the  nest,  amid  much  cackling 
and  chattering  from  both  old  and  young,  in  a  short 
time  early  one  June  morning.  One  by  one  they 
scrambled  outside  the  box,  then  off  into  the  honey- 
suckle-vines, where  they  lingered  an  hour  or  more 
before  they  tried  their  wings  in  short  flights  to 
near-by  bushes. 

I  have  seen  young  barn  swallows  cling  to  the 
outside  of  their  nest  and  beat  their  wings  vigorously 
a  day  or  two  before  taking  flight.  The  young  of  the 
grouse  and  quail  and  of  the  small  water  and  shore 
birds  run  away  from  the  nest  the  day  they  are 
hatched;  they  trust  to  their  legs  long  before  their 
wing-quills  have  sprouted.  The  young  humming- 
birds that  I  have  seen  leave  the  nest  shot  up  into 
the  air  as  if  a  spring  beneath  them  had  been  re- 
leased. 

The  current  notion  that  the  parent  birds  teach 
the  young  to  fly  —  that  of  set  purpose  they  give 
them  lessons  in  flying  —  is  entirely  erroneous.  The 
young  fly  automatically  when  the  time  comes,  as 
truly  so  as  the  witch-hazel  nut  explodes,  and  the 
pod  of  the  jewel-weed  goes  off  when  the  seeds  are 
ripe.  The  parent  birds  call  to  their  young,  and  I  have 

75 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

thought  that  in  some  cases  they  withhold  the  food 
longer  than  usual,  to  stimulate  the  young  to  make 
the  great  adventure;  but  in  the  case  of  the  blue- 
birds referred  to,  the  young  were  fed  up  to  the 
moment  of  flight. 


IV 

FUSS  AND  FEATHERS 

PROBABLY  we  have  no  other  familiar  bird 
keyed  up  to  the  same  degree  of  intensity  as 
the  house  wren.  He  seems  to  be  the  one  bird  whose 
cup  of  Ufe  is  always  overflowing.  The  wren  is  habit- 
ually in  an  ecstasy  either  of  delight  or  of  rage.  He 
probably  gets  on  the  nerves  of  more  persons  than 
any  other  of  our  birds.  He  is  so  shrilly  and  over- 
flowingly  joyous,  or  else  so  sharply  and  harshly 
angry  and  pugnacious  —  a  lyrical  burst  one  minute, 
and  a  volley  of  chiding,  staccato  notes  the  next. 
More  restless  than  the  wind,  he  is  a  tiny  dynamo  of 
bird  energy.  From  his  appearance  in  May  till  his 
last  brood  is  out  in  midsummer,  he  repeats  his  shrill, 
hurried  little  strain  about  ten  times  a  minute  for 
about  ten  hours  a  day,  and  cackles  and  chatters 
between-times.  He  expends  enough  energy  in  giving 
expression  to  his  happiness,  or  vent  to  his  anger,  in 
the  course  of  each  day  to  carry  him  halfway  to  the 
Gulf.  He  sputters,  he  chatters,  he  carols;  he  excites 
the  wrath  of  bluebirds,  phoebes,  orioles,  robins;  he 
darts  into  holes;  he  bobs  up  in  unexpected  places; 
he  nests  in  old  hats,  in  dinner-pails,  in  pumps,  in 
old  shoes.  Give  him  a  twig  and  a  feather  and  a  hole 
in  almost  anything,  and  his  cup  is  full.  How  ab- 

77 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

surdly  happy  he  is  over  a  few  dry  twigs  there  in  that 
box,  and  his  httle  freckled  mate  sitting  upon  her 
eggs!  His  throat  swells  and  throbs  as  if  he  had  all 
the  winds  of  iEolus  imprisoned  in  it,  and  the  little 
tempest  of  joy  in  there  rages  all  the  time.  His  song 
goes  off  as  suddenly  as  if  some  one  had  touched  a 
spring  or  switched  on  a  current.  If  feathers  can 
have  a  feathered  edge,  the  wren  has  it. 

"What  bird  is  that?"  asked  an  invahd  wife, 
seated  on  the  porch  near  a  wren-box.  *'Is  it  never 
still,  and  never  silent?  It  gets  on  my  nerves." 

"Neither  still  nor  silent  long  at  a  time,"  replied 
her  husband,  "except  when  asleep." 

It  repeats  its  song  at  least  six  thousand  times  a 
day  for  two  or  three  months,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
brings  many  scores  of  insects  to  feed  its  young.  But 
this  activity  does  not  use  up  all  the  energy  of  the 
wren.  He  gets  rid  of  some  of  the  surplus  in  building 
cock,  or  sham,  nests  in  every  unoccupied  bird-box 
near  him.  He  fills  the  cavities  up  with  twigs,  and 
I  have  even  seen  him  carry  food  into  these  sham 
nests,  playing  that  he  had  young  there.  (I  saw  him 
do  it  yesterday,  July  7th;  he  held  in  his  beak  what 
seemed  to  be  a  small  green  worm.)  Not  even  these 
activities  use  up  all  his  energy;  it  overflows  in  his 
shaking  and  vibrating  wings  while  in  song. 

The  song  of  the  house  wren  is  rather  harsh  and 
shrill,  far  inferior  as  a  musical  performance  to  that 
of  the  winter  \\Ten.  The  songs  of  the  two  differ  as 

78 


FUSS  AND  FEATHERS 

their  nests  differ,  or  as  soft  green  moss  and  feathers 
differ  from  dry  twigs  and  a  little  dry  grass.  A  truly 
sylvan  strain  is  that  of  the  winter  wren,  suggesting 
deep  wildwood  solitudes,  while  that  of  the  house 
wren  is  more  in  keeping  with  the  noise  and  clatter 
of  the  farm  and  dooryard.  He  begins  singing  by  or 
before  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  for  the  first 
hour  hardly  stops  to  take  breath,  and  all  the  fore- 
noon the  pauses  between  his  volleys  of  notes  are  of 
but  a  few  seconds. 

I  find  that  there  are  good  bird-observers  who  ac- 
cuse the  wren  of  destroying  the  eggs  of  other  birds. 
I  have  no  first-hand  evidence  that  such  is  a  fact, 
but  the  hostility  of  several  other  species  of  birds 
toward  the  wren  gives  color  to  the  charge.  Why, 
for  instance,  should  the  phoebe-bird  make  a  sav- 
age drive  at  him,  if  she  has  not  some  old  score  of 
that  kind  to  wipe  out.^  or  the  song  sparrow  chase 
him  into  a  vine  or  a  bush  and  keep  him  a  prisoner 
there  for  a  few  moments,  as  I  have  seen  him  do.f^ 

As  I  was  sitting  on  the  platform  of  the  fruit-house 
one  morning,  watching  the  wood  thrushes  at  nest- 
building,  there  was  a  rustle  of  wings  almost  at  my 
elbow,  and  the  snapping  of  a  phcebe's  beak.  I  turned 
in  time  to  see  a  brown  speck  darting  under  the 
floor,  and  a  phoebe-bird  close  on  to  its  heels.  The 
speck  was  a  wren,  and  the  phoebe  was  driving  for 
it  viciously.  How  spitefully  her  beak  did  snap! 
As  the  wren  eluded  her,  phoebe  turned  quickly  and 

2a 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

disappeared  down  the  hill,  where  she  had  a  nest  on  a 
rafter  in  the  lower  fruit-house. 

This  season  there  are  four  wrens'  nests  about  my 
place,  in  hollow  limbs  and  boxes  which  we  have  put 
up,  and  three  bluebirds'  nests.  The  wrens  and  the 
bluebirds  often  come  into  collision;  mainly,  I  think, 
because  they  are  rivals  for  the  same  nesting-sites. 
The  bluebird,  with  all  his  soft,  plaintive  notes,  has  a 
marked  vein  of  pugnacity  in  him,  and  is  at  times 
a  lively  "scrapper";  and  the  wren  is  no  "peace-at- 
any-price  bird,  and  will  stand  up  for  his  rights  very 
bravely  against  his  big  blue-coated  rival. 

Late  one  afternoon,  when  I  was  busy  in  the  gar- 
den near  the  end  of  the  vineyard,  where  there  was  a 
bird-box,  I  suddenly  heard  the  loud,  emphatic  note 
of  a  bluebird  mingled  with  the  chiding  cackle  and 
chatter  of  a  house  wren.  I  saw  the  bluebird  dive 
savagely  at  the  wren  and  drive  him  into  a  currant- 
bush,  where  he  would  scold  and  "sass  back,"  and 
then  break  out  into  a  shrill,  brief  song.  Presently  a 
female  oriole  came  and  joined  the  bluebird  in  per- 
secuting the  wren,  which  answered  back  from  its 
safe  retreat  in  the  bushes  with  harsh  chatter  and 
snatches  of  tantalizing  song.  The  bluebird  took  up 
his  stand  on  the  grape-post  that  supported  the  bird- 
box  in  which  the  wren  had  a  nest,  and  from  this 
outlook  he  grew  eloquent  in  his  denunciation  of 
wrens.  His  loud,  rapid  voice  and  the  answering 
cackle  of  the  wren  attracted  the  attention  of  their 

e-0 


FUSS  AND  FEATHERS 

bird  neighbors.  Four  robins  came,  one  after  another, 
and  perched  on  the  tops  of  surrounding  posts,  silent 
but  interested  spectators.  A  male  oriole  came,  a  cat- 
bird came,  two  song  sparrows  came,  and  then  a 
male  goldfinch  perched  near  by.  The  birds  were  evi- 
dently curious  to  know  what  all  this  loud  alterca- 
tion was  about  —  very  human  in  this  respect. 

After  the  bluebird  had  eased  his  mind  a  little 
about  wrens,  he  dropped  down  to  the  box,  and, 
clinging  to  the  entrance  of  the  nest,  looked  in. 
Instantly  the  wren  was  on  his  back,  scolding  ex- 
citedly. The  bluebird  turned  to  seize  him,  but  was 
not  quick  enough,  and  there  was  a  brown  streak, 
with  a  blue  streak  close  behind  it,  to  the  nearest 
currant-bush,  in  which  the  wren  again  chattered 
and  sang  in  derision.  The  bluebird  again  resumed 
his  perch  above  the  nest  and  was  louder  and  more 
emphatic  than  ever  in  his  protests.  It  was  really  very 
amusing  to  see  the  bluebird  stand  up  so  straight 
there  on  the  post,  like  a  stump  orator,  delivering 
his  philippic  against  the  wren.  His  whole  bearing 
and  tone  expressed  indignation  and  an  outraged 
sense  of  justice.  I  fancied  him  saying:  "My  friends 
and  neighbors,  I  want  to  bear  witness  before  you 
of  the  despicable  character  of  this  chattering,  skulk- 
ing, impudent  house  wren.  He  is  an  intolerable 
nuisance.  He  crosses  my  path  daily.  Every  honest 
bird  hates  him.  He  fills  up  the  boxes  he  cannot 
occupy  with  his  rubbish,  and  assaults  me  if  I  look 

81 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

into  them  and  criticize  his  conduct.  He  is  sly  and 
meddlesome,  and  a  disturber  of  the  peace.  He  has 
the  manners  of  a  blackguard  and  the  habits  of  a 
thief  and  a  despoiler.  His  throat  and  tongue  are 
brass,  and  his  song  is  as  harsh  as  the  dry  twigs  he 
makes  his  nest  of.  I  ask  you  to  join  me  in  putting 
him  down.*'  His  audience  listened  and  looked  on 
with  interest,  I  will  not  say  with  amusement.  The 
humor  of  the  situation  probably  appealed  to  me 
alone.  The  birds  were  only  anxious  to  find  out  if  a 
possible  common  danger  threatened  them  all.  But 
to  me  the  situation  had  an  element  of  comedy  in  it, 
and  made  me  laugh  in  spite  of  myself. 

Again  the  bluebird  essayed  to  look  into  that 
hole,  and  as  quick  as  a  flash  the  wren  was  on  his 
back.  Whether  or  not  he  used  his  sharp  beak,  I 
could  not  tell,  as  the  assailed  turned  upon  his  assail- 
ant so  quickly  —  but  not  quick  enough  to  get  in  a 
counter-stroke.  The  vines  and  bushes  were  again  a 
house  of  safety  for  the  wren.  Three  or  four  times  the 
bluebird  asserted  his  natural  right  to  look  into  any 
hole  or  cavity  he  had  a  mind  to,  and  each  time  the 
wren  denied  that  right  in  the  way  I  have  described. 
But  such  jangles  among  the  birds  are  usually  brief. 
One  by  one  the  spectators  flew  away;  and  finally  the 
chief  actor  in  the  little  drama  flew  away,  and  the 
wren  warbled  in  a  strain  of  triumph. 

The  next  day  I  discovered  that  the  wren  had  only 
begun  building  a  nest  in  the  box,  probably  a  cock 

82 


FUSS  AND  FEATHERS 

nest.  One  thing  arrested  my  attention;  the  box  had  a 
big  crack  in  it  from  the  entrance  nearly  to  the  bot- 
tom. This  crack  the  wren  had  evidently  essayed  to 
stop  with  twigs.  At  first  sight  my  impression  was 
that  the  twigs  had  accidentally  got  caught  in  the 
crack  in  the  bird's  effort  to  get  them  into  the  nest. 
But,  after  carefully  considering  the  matter,  I  see  I 
must  credit  him  with  a  purpose  to  mend  his  house. 
He  had  first  put  two  small  twigs  into  the  crack  and 
then  finished  the  job  with  a  much  larger  twig,  eight 
inches  long,  which  closed  the  opening  very  effectu- 
ally. This  last  twig  was  larger  and  longer  than  wrens 
ever  use  in  their  nests.  It  was  a  very  clever  stroke. 
I  think  the  male  wrens  have  sham  battles  as  well 
as  sham  nests;  they  must  work  off  their  superfluous 
animation  in  some  way.  For  hours  one  early  July 
afternoon  two  males,  one  of  whom  had  a  cock  nest 
a  few  yards  below  me  in  a  box  on  a  grape-post,  and 
the  other  a  few  yards  above  me  in  a  box  on  the 
corner  of  the  veranda,  amused  and  delayed  me  in 
my  eager  reading  of  the  war  news  (the  British  had 
just  begun  their  great  offensive  in  France)  by  en- 
gaging in  what  appeared  to  be  a  most  determined 
song  contest  from  their  respective  perches  a  few 
yards  apart.  How  their  throats  were  convulsed! 
Under  what  pressure  of  jealousy  or  rivalry  they  did 
hurl  shrill  defiance  at  each  other  in  that,  to  me, 
languid  summer  afternoon!  Back  and  forth,  back 
and  forth,  went  the  voluble  challenges,  the  birds 

83 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

facing  each  other  with  drooping  wings  and  throb- 
bing breasts.  The  grape-post  wren  seemed  to  be 
in  the  more  aggressive  mood.  When  he  could  stand 
it  no  longer,  he  would  dart  up  the  hill  at  his  opponent 
on  the  low  branch  of  a  maple,  who  never  stood  to 
his  guns,  and  the  two  would  make  a  brown  streak 
in  a  wide  circle  around  the  maples  and  the  Study, 
and  down  the  hill  round  the  summer-house,  keep- 
ing just  so  far  apart,  and  never  actually  coming  to 
blows.  Then  they  would  take  up  their  old  positions 
and  renew  the  vocal  contest  with  the  same  spirit  as 
before,  till  one  of  them  was  again  carried  off  his  feet 
and  hurled  himself  at  his  rival  on  the  maple-branch. 
Round  and  round  they  would  go,  squeaking  and 
chattering,  but  never  ruffling  a  feather.  Hour  after 
hour,  with  brief  intervals,  and  at  times  day  after 
day,  these  two  little  hot  but  happy  spirits  played 
the  comedy  of  this  mimic  war.  It  was  not  even  a 
tempest  in  a  teapot;  it  was  tempest  in  a  nutshell, 
but  there  was  a  vast  deal  of  nature  in  it  for  all  that. 
Both  birds  simply  overflowed  with  the  emotions 
proper  to  the  season  and  the  conditions. 

The  mate  of  the  grape-post  bird  had  a  nest  in 
a  box  farther  down  the  hill,  where  the  care  of  her 
young  occupied  her  most  of  her  time.  She  scolded 
as  only  \\Tens  can  scold  when  I  went  poking  about 
her  box,  but  my  poking  about  the  box  of  the  male 
did  not  agitate  the  owner  at  all.  I  tried  to  explore 
the  inside  with  my  finger,  but  found  it  apparently 

84 


FUSS  AND  FEATHERS 

packed  full  of  twigs.  I  had  often  seen  the  bird 
enter  it  and  disappear  for  some  moments,  but  my 
finger  found  no  vacant  space.  Then  one  day  I  saw 
the  female  enter  it,  much  to  the  joy  and  loud  ac- 
claim of  her  mate.  I  finally  saw  her  carry  in  fine 
spears  of  dry  grass.  To  clear  up  the  mystery  I 
took  off  the  top  of  the  box,  and  found  that  there 
was  barely  room  enough  between  its  top  and  the 
twigs  for  a  body  the  size  of  my  finger  to  squeeze 
in,  and  enter  a  small,  deep  pocket  in  one  corner 
which  the  cock  had  cunningly  arranged.  He  had 
made  sure  that  no  bird  larger  than  a  wren  —  no 
usurping  bluebird  nor  meddling  English  sparrow  — 
could  gain  entrance,  and  as  for  inquisitive  wrens, 
he  could  meet  them  at  an  advantage.  Then  I  ex- 
amined the  lower  box,  where  the  young  were,  which 
had  an  opening  large  enough  for  a  high-hole,  or  a 
great  crested  flycatcher,  and  found  that  the  fore- 
sighted  little  creatures  had  used  the  same  tactics 
here;  they  had  built  a  barricade  of  twigs  in  front 
of  the  nest,  which  was  in  one  corner,  and  which 
could  be  entered  by  the  wrens  only  by  a  close 
squeeze.  Artful  little  people,  I  said,  living  joyous 
and  intensive  lives,  and  as  full  of  character  and 
spirit  as  an  egg  is  full  of  meat. 

This  little  bird  loves  to  be  near  your  house,  but 
give  it  a  chance  and  it  will  come  inside  of  it  and  nest 
in  the  room  you  occupy.  I  knew  of  a  pair  that  came 
through  a  screen  door  left  ajar,  into  a  room  on  the 

85 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

second  floor  of  a  famous  inn  in  the  valley  of  the 
Rondout,  and  built  a  nest  on  the  sash  behind  a 
heavy  green  window-curtain  —  a  real  nest  on  one 
side  of  the  door  where  the  brood  was  raised,  and  a 
cock,  or  dummy,  nest  on  the  other  side.  It  was  not 
an  inviting  place  for  a  nest,  except  that  the  room  was 
occupied  by  a  well-known  woman  artist  and  writer 
who  seems  to  have  extended  a  hearty  welcome  to  the 
little  feathered  intruders.  She  cultivated  them,  and 
they  seem  to  have  cultivated  her,  sitting  on  the 
corner  of  her  table  when  she  was  at  work,  and 
chattering  and  singing  to  her  in  the  most  pointed 
manner.  The  people  in  the  house  who  knew  of  the 
situation  were  not  slow  in  coming  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  birds  recognized  in  the  artist  a  kindred 
spirit,  and  were  drawn  to  her  as  they  are  not  to 
other  people.  The  case  is  at  least  a  suggestive  one. 
I  can  relate  but  one  somewhat  analogous  ex- 
perience from  my  own  life  —  remotely  analogous, 
I  may  say,  as  I  was  not  alone  concerned  in  the  case 
and  the  bird  involved  was  not  a  wren.  Some  years 
ago,  while  on  a  visit  to  friends  in  one  of  the  large 
cities  of  the  western  part  of  New  York  State,  some 
members  of  a  bird  club  and  one  or  two  officials  of 
the  city  government  drove  me  about  through  the 
various  parks.  We  came  to  a  park  where  there  was 
a  small  aviary,  a  space  thirty  or  forty  feet  square, 
enclosed  by  wire  netting.  In  this  cage  were  a  num- 
ber of  our  common  birds,  but  the  one  that  made  a 

86 


FUSS  AND  FEATHERS 

lasting  impression  upon  me,  and  upon  all  who  ac- 
companied me,  was  a  fox  sparrow.  No  sooner  had 
we  paused  before  the  big  cage  than  a  strange  ex- 
citement seemed  to  seize  this  bird,  and  it  began 
flying  from  one  end  of  the  enclosure  to  the  other, 
clinging  for  a  moment  to  the  wires  at  each  end, 
and  singing  in  the  most  ecstatic  manner,  and  by 
its  enthusiasm  kindling  one  or  two  other  birds  into 
song.  I  had  heard  the  fox  sparrow  many  times,  but 
never  before  one  that  approached  this  one  in  power 
and  brilliancy.  It  sang  in  a  strain  varied  and  copi- 
ous beyond  compare  —  a  kind  of  musical  frenzy. 
It  was  fairly  startling.  The  man  in  charge  said 
he  had  never  heard  it  sing  before,  nor  had  any  of 
my  companions.  I  saw  at  once  that  the  thought 
in  all  minds,  which  soon  came  out  in  words,  was 
that  the  bird  was  singing  to  me;  that  it  had  re- 
cognized me  as  a  bird-lover,  and  was  intoxicated  by 
the  discovery.  There  were  other  bird-lovers  in  the 
company.  There  is,  of  course,  some  other  explana- 
tion of  the  extraordinary  performance,  but  what  it 
is  no  one  could  suggest.  There  was  nothing  striking 
or  unusual  in  the  appearance  of  any  of  us,  yet  our 
presence  seemed  to  act  like  fire  to  a  fuse,  and  that 
one  bird  was  the  rocket  that  astonished  and  de- 
lighted us  all.  It  darted  about  the  enclosure  as  if  its 
joy  were  uncontrollable,  and  sang  in  a  spirit  to 
match.  I  venture  to  say  that  none  of  those  present 
will  ever  forget  the  incident.  The  more  I  thought 

87 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

about  it  afterward,  the  more  it  impressed  me.  I  am 
not  the  least  bit  credulous  about  such  things;  I  have 
never  observed  that  the  birds,  or  other  wild  crea- 
tures, behave  in  any  way  exceptionally  toward  me, 
or  toward  any  one  else.  The  legends  in  the  old  liter- 
ature of  the  power  of  certain  saintly  persons,  like 
St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  over  the  birds  and  animals, 
I  look  upon  as  legends  merely.  They  are  probably 
greatly  exaggerated  accounts  of  the  power  of  gen- 
tleness and  kindliness  over  the  lower  orders.  The 
movements,  the  tones  of  the  voice,  the  expression  of 
the  face,  all  play  a  part  in  the  impression  we  make 
upon  man  or  beast.  I  have  always  been  successful  in 
handling  bees,  because  I  am  not  afraid  of  bees,  and 
go  among  them  as  if  I  had  a  right  there.  I  am  suc- 
cessful in  making  friends  with  dogs,  because  I  show 
no  suspicion  or  hesitancy  toward  them,  and,  as  it 
were,  extend  to  them  the  hand  of  fellowship.  But 
the  case  of  the  fox  sparrow  is  the  single  incident 
I  can  recall  that  might  be  interpreted,  in  the  spirit 
of  the  old  legends,  as  showing  special  sympathy 
and  understanding  between  man  and  birds.  The 
incident  of  the  woman  artist  with  the  wrens  nesting 
in  her  room,  and  their  perching  on  her  table  and 
talking  wren-talk  to  her,  is  of  the  same  character. 
Such  things  may  afford  hints  of  some  psychic  con- 
dition,   some   community   of   mind    between   the 
human  and  the  animal,  as  yet  but  little  understood, 
but  they  are  far  from  convincing. 


THE  SONGS  OF  BIRDS 

ONE  of  the  most  remarkable  things  in  animal 
life  to  me  is  the  singing  of  the  birds.  Perhaps 
the  fiddling  of  the  insects  is  equally  remarkable,  but 
it  falls  into  the  same  category  of  remarkable  bio- 
logical facts,  and  doubtless  its  genesis  is  the  same. 
How  shall  we  interpret  the  singing  of  birds?  Does 
it  bear  any  analogy  to  human  singing?  Is  it  directed 
to  any  particular  end?  Is  it  expressive  of  joy,  as  it 
would  seem  to  be?  Is  it  to  please  and  win  the  female? 
It  is  most  assuredly  what  the  biologists  call  a  sec- 
ondary sexual  characteristic,  as  it  belongs  to  the 
breeding-season,  and  is  associated  with  the  bright 
plumage  of  the  males  that  comes  at  this  time.  But 
I  am  persuaded  that  the  females  give  little  or  no 
heed  to  it.  Only  so  far  as  it  helps  make  up  the  sum 
of  other  plus  qualities  which  are  characteristic  of  the 
males,  such  as  ornate  appendages,  bright  colors,  and 
general  pugnacity,  does  it  count  with  the  females. 
The  female  among  the  birds  is  not  so  much  won, 
in  the  human  sense,  as  she  is  conquered  or  dom- 
inated. She  resents  courtship,  and  often  meets 
would-be  caresses  with  blows.  What  finally  deter- 
mines her  choice  of  any  particular  male  would  be 
hard  to  decide,  though  it  seems  to  be  the  vigor  of  his 

89 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

address,  which,  of  course,  would  again  be  expressive 
of  his  all-round  conquering  character.  The  positive 
body  will  always  dominate  the  negative,  and  that, 
in  short,  is  why  the  male  dominates  the  female. 
What  country  boy  has  not  seen  a  female  sparrow, 
or  robin,  or  bluebird,  apparently  a  disinterested 
spectator  of  the  battles  of  her  male  suitors?  If  she 
secretly  wishes  for  the  success  of  either  of  the  com- 
batants, she  has  the  art  of  completely  concealing 
it.  The  victor  takes  the  prize. 

That  the  singing  of  birds  bears  no  analogy  to  the 
singing  of  human  beings,  and  is  neither  to  please 
themselves  nor  to  please  others,  is  obvious  from  at 
least  two  facts:  one  is  that  birds  with  defective  or 
only  half-articulate  voices  will  sing  just  as  joy- 
ously and  persistently  as  do  birds  whose  instru- 
ments are  perfect.  I  have  witnessed  this  in  the  case 
of  the  hermit  thrush,  the  bobolink,  and  the  cockerel 
of  the  barnyard.  The  birds  of  the  wood,  and  of  the 
meadow,  quite  ignored  their  split  whistles,  and  the 
cockerel  arched  his  neck  and  inflated  his  lungs  and 
went  through  with  the  motions  of  crowing  just  as 
proudly  and  repeatedly  as  did  the  cock  he  w^as  chal- 
lenging. Then  the  seasonal  and  automatic  charac- 
ter of  bird-songs,  and  their  tireless  persistence,  mark 
them  off  from  all  human  performances.  If  a  man  or  a 
woman  were  to  use  his  or  her  voice  one  thousandth 
part  as  much  as  the  singing  bird  uses  its  voice,  he  or 
she  would  soon  be  so  hoarse  that  speaking  would  be 

90 


THE  SONGS  OF  BIRDS 

impossible.  Man's  vocal  organs,  at  least  those  of  the 
mouth,  are  made  of  quite  different  material  —  the 
palate  and  soft  and  flexible  lips  and  tongue  — 
while  the  bird  has  hard  and  horny  tongue  and  bill. 
The  singing-organs  of  the  live  bird  do  not  differ  very 
much  from  those  of  the  artificial  bird  which  you 
wind  up,  and  which  sings  and  throbs  much  like  the 
real  thing.  The  music-box  of  the  bird  is  called  the 
syrinx,  and  is  composed  of  hard  cartilaginous  rings 
which  do  not  seem  to  be  much  more  susceptible  of 
fatigue  and  wear  than  a  tin  whistle.  The  bird's  song 
repeated  a  thousand  or  more  times  a  day  for  months 
does  not  seem  to  affect  it  in  the  least.  All  singing 
birds,  and  all  birds  with  loud  calls,  have  this  ana- 
tomical contrivance  in  the  trachea  called  the  syrinx. 

Our  turkey  buzzard  has  no  voice  because  it  has 
no  syrinx.  Maybe  Nature  did  not  dare  trust  the 
uncleanly  glutton  to  speak.  The  hawks  and  the 
eagles  she  seems  more  liberal  with  because  theirs 
is  a  nobler  type  of  savagery.  And  yet,  not  to  be  too 
sure  about  Nature's  motives,  there  is  the  European 
stork,  a  rather  noble  bird,  which  has  no  voice. 
It  is  not  easy  to  fathom  Nature's  inconsistencies. 
See  what  a  voice  she  has  given  to  the  frogs,  while 
she  has  given  none  to  the  turtles !  Behold  the  noisy 
crickets  and  grasshoppers  and  the  silent  moths  and 
butterflies,  the  whistling  marmot  and  the  silent 
skunks  and  porcupines! 

As  I  sat  on  my  porch  this  chilly  July  morning 

91 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

about  eight  o'clock,  while  a  slow  rain  was  falling,  a 
song  sparrow  was  singing  from  the  top  of  a  dead 
plum-tree  across  the  road  in  front  of  me.  He  was 
repeating  his  song  at  the  rate  of  five  times  a  minute, 
and  had  been  doing  so  with  but  very  short  breaks 
since  about  four  o'clock.  It  is  the  middle  of  July, 
and  this  bird  has  been  in  song  since  some  time  in 
April.  The  season  is  a  very  late  one  (1917),  and  I 
think  his  mate  is  yet  incubating.  As  is  usual  with 
the  song  sparrow,  he  has  five  different  songs,  and 
he  shifts  from  one  to  the  other  at  irregular  intervals. 
The  change  is  as  marked  as  that  of  the  organ- 
grinder  when  he  goes  through  his  repertoire  in  front 
of  your  window.  He  repeats  each  one  from  eight  to 
ten  times.  We  call  him  "Mrs.  Durkee,"  because  in 
the  last  phrase  of  one  of  his  songs  he  says,  "Mrs.. 
Durkee,"  very  distinctly. 

The  main  business  of  his  life  seems  to  be  singing. 
Four  fifths  of  his  time  from  sunrise  to  sunset  he  is 
perched  on  the  top  of  the  old  plum-tree  going  through 
his  musical  repertoire.  Getting  his  living  appears 
to  occupy  very  little  of  his  time,  and  if  he  visits  his 
mate  or  in  any  way  contributes  to  her  well-being,  he 
does  it  on  the  sly.  Each  song  consists  of  not  more 
than  six  or  seven  notes,  and  its  delivery  takes  two 
or  three  seconds.  At  intervals  he  shakes  off  the  rain- 
drops. In  the  distance  I  faintly  hear  another  song 
sparrow  going  through  a  similar  performance,  but 
with  songs  of  his  own.  Indeed,  I  am  convinced  that 

9S 


THE  SONGS  OF  BIRDS 

each  sparrow  has  his  own  set  of  songs.  In  the  beech 
and  maple  woods  on  a  knoll  above  me  I  hear,  day- 
after  day,  rain  or  shine,  a  scarlet  tanager  repeating 
his  song  at  almost  all  hours  of  the  day,  but  without 
the  variations  that  the  sparrow  has.  Sometimes  he 
comes  down  from  his  sylvan  retreat  and  sings  for  a 
few  moments  from  the  dry  branch  of  an  apple-tree 
near  us,  delighting  the  eye  with  his  scarlet  coat  more 
than  he  does  the  ear  with  the  burr  in  his  voice.  His 
visits  are  brief.  He  is  soon  back  to  his  maple  retreat, 
where  his  song  is  mellowed  by  distance.  But  from 
the  little  sparrow  on  the  old  plum-tree  there  is  no 
escape.  His  persistent  singing,  early  and  late,  in  this 
great  country  solitude  becomes  the  dominant  fact. 
You  cannot  ignore  it.  It  is  as  insistent  as  the  clock. 
He  rings  the  changes  of  his  five  songs  into  your  ears 
over  and  over,  ten  times,  a  hundred  times  over,  in 
the  morning  before  you  are  up.  He  reiterates  them 
tirelessly  all  the  forenoon.  They  stand  out  sharply 
upon  the  great  silence.  They  challenge  your  atten- 
tion almost  to  the  verge  of  irritation.  There  is  a 
slight  let-up  in  the  afternoon,  but  "Mrs.  Durkee" 
is  the  last  sound  we  hear  as  the  twilight  settles  down. 
There  are  no  insect  voices  or  other  sounds,  and  the 
little  singer  has  the  listening  world  all  to  himself. 

The  question  recurs  to  me,  Does  the'  feeling  or 
impulse  which  prompts  the  birds  to  sing  correspond 
at  all  to  the  feeling  that  prompts  human  beings  to 
sing?  Does  it  give  them  or  their  mates  pleasure?  Is 

93 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

it  expressive  of  joy  or  happiness?  Or  is  it  a  natural 
automatic  expression  of  the  male  sexual  principle  — 
the  overflow  or  surplusage  of  the  breeding-instinct, 
such  as  the  brilliant  colors  and  strange  antics  of 
male  birds  generally?  After  the  young  are  hatched 
this  singing  of  the  male  will  begin  to  slacken,  until 
shortly  before  September  it  stops  entirely.  The  tide 
of  bird-song  is  usually  at  its  height  in  June,  and  it 
begins  to  ebb  in  early  July.  The  rollicking  spirit  of 
the  bobolink  is  at  this  time  clouded  by  care  and 
anxiety  about  his  young,  and  his  song  is  only  heard 
fitfully  and  in  snatches.  As  I  pass  along  a  road  by  a 
meadow  where  a  pair  has  young,  the  agitation  of 
both  birds  is  very  marked;  they  publish  to  the 
passer-by  in  every  way  possible  that  they  have 
hidden  in  that  timothy  grass  young  that  they  are 
very  solicitous  about.  They  hover  in  the  air  and 
utter  their  alarm  notes,  and  if  I  pause  near,  the  male 
becomes  so  excited  that  a  snatch  of  his  song  comes 
out  now  and  then  amid  his  rapidly  uttered  chiding 
notes.  His  joyous  level  flight  on  quivering  wing 
changes  to  the  hurried,  abrupt,  jerky  flight  of  the 
female.  The  female  bobolink  always  seems  in  bad 
humor,  nervous  and  hurried  and  out  of  sorts  with 
the  male  that  so  dotes  upon  her.  All  his  ecstatic 
singing  seems  to  make  no  impression  upon  her;  the 
singer  alone  seems  to  joy  in  it,  and  to  be  proud  of 
his  performance.  ("The  song  is  to  the  singer  and 
comes  back  most  to  him,"  says  Whitman.)  Indeed, 

94 


THE  SONGS  OF  BIRDS 

this  is  the  case  among  all  classes  of  birds;  the  females 
have  unmusical  ears  and  appear  to  be  annoyed 
rather  than  charmed  by  the  songs  of  the  males. 
Behold,  even  the  hens  in  the  yard  shake  their  heads 
protestingly  as  if  it  hurt  their  ears,  as  it  probably 
does,  when  the  cockerel  arches  his  neck  and  utters 
his  strident  and  self-satisfied  challenge  to  all  the 
world.  The  females  of  all  species  are  more  averse  to 
noise  than  the  males,  and  are  less  self-assertive  un- 
less the  well-being  of  their  young  is  at  stake,  when 
they  can  outdo  the  males.  Female  nature  is  timid 
and  retiring,  even  in  the  vegetable  kingdom,  while 
the  male  is  more  showy  and  aggressive,  at  least  dur- 
ing the  breeding-season.  The  singing  of  birds  be- 
longs to  this  phase,  and,  I  think,  is  no  more  addressed 
to  the  female  than  it  is  addressed  to  all  the  world. 

It  is  the  psean  and  celebration  of  the  fecundity  of 
Nature.  These  colors,  these  ornaments,  are  the 
spangles  upon  her  garments;  they  are  an  extra 
touch,  an  artistic  flourish,  an  evidence  of  the  festive 
spirit  that  goes  with  the  primal  command  to  "in- 
crease and  multiply"  —  the  one  end  which  all  na- 
ture has  most  at  heart.  The  bird  sings,  the  cock 
crows,  the  tom  turkey  gobbles,  the  prairie  chicken 
booms,  the  woodpecker  drums,  the  frog  croaks,  the 
crane  trumpets,  the  stag  bugles,  the  bull  roars,  the 
insects  fiddle  —  all  instruments  in  the  great  orches- 
tral celebration  of  this  aboriginal  impulse. 

On  the  same  old  plum-tree  where  the  song  spar- 

95 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

row  sings,  perch  every  hour  in  the  day  two  bluebirds 
who  are  busy  feeding  their  young  in  a  cavity  exca- 
vated by  a  woodpecker  in  a  maple-stub  on  the  cor- 
ner of  my  porch.  They  do  no  singing,  but  seem  to 
converse  in  soft  warbles,  and  they  signal  to  each 
other  in  gentle  wing  gestures.  They  do  not  heed  the 
singing  sparrow,  nor  he  them,  but  they  often  dive 
spitefully  at  the  "chippie"  when  she  comes  about 
her  own  private  business  in  the  grass  under  their 
brood. 

The  bluebird  is  not  a  singer  like  the  robin  or  the 
sparrow,  but  he  is  one  of  our  soft,  sweet-voiced 
birds,  with  many  pretty  ways  that  greatly  endear 
him  to  all  country  people.  He  is  clearly  an  offshoot, 
back  in  biologic  time,  from  the  line  of  thrushes,  and 
he  inherits  their  soft  voices  and  pleasing  manners, 
but  not  their  musical  talents.  Nature  has  made 
amends  to  him  in  his  extra  color. 

Here  we  strike  the  exceptional  fact  in  bird-life, 
the  non-singing  birds,  such  as  our  bluebird,  our 
cedar  waxwing,  our  nuthatches,  our  kingbird,  and 
others,  all  of  which  have  their  calls  more  or  less 
musical,  but  none  of  which  are  deliberate  songsters. 
The  cedar-bird  has  the  least  voice  of  any  of  our 
small  birds  that  I  now  recall,  his  sole  note  being  a 
fine,  beadlike  sound  which  he  usually  utters  on  tak- 
ing flight.  Approach  his  nest  or  young  and,  so  far 
as  I  have  observed,  he  shows  no  other  sign  of  agi- 
tation than  depressing  his  plumage  and  assuming 

96 


THE  SONGS  OF  BIRDS 

a  very  stiff,  straight  attitude,  which  does,  indeed, 
give  him  a  wild,  startled  look. 

Our  woodpeckers  do  not  sing,  but  instead  they 
beat  a  drum  in  the  shape  of  a  dry,  resonant  limb, 
which  seems  to  be  expressive  of  the  same  breeding- 
instinct.  The  flicker  has  a  long,  oft-repeated  call 
which  he  alternates  with  his  drumming,  and  that 
is  one  of  the  most  welcome  of  vernal  sounds.  The 
drumming  of  the  yellow-bellied  woodpecker  is  the 
most  unusual  of  them  all;  the  bird  delivers  five 
strokes  on  his  drum,  three  of  them  rapidly,  and  then 
two  with  longer  intervals  between.  This  variation 
gives  it  a  little  touch  of  art.  The  drums  of  the  pile- 
ated  and  the  ivory-billed  woodpeckers  I  have  never 
heard. 

All  our  song-birds  sing  with  mechanical  regularity 
and  persistence.  It  is  as  if  they  were  instruments 
wound  up  to  go  off  at  a  certain  time,  and  to  con- 
tinue for  a  certain  time.  I  know  of  no  species  that 
during  the  breeding-season  does  not  repeat  its  song 
many  thousands  of  times  a  day  or  night. 

Every  morning  in  my  walk  I  hear  a  vesper  spar- 
row on  the  edge  of  a  pasture  repeating  his  song  from 
the  top  of  a  thorn-tree  at  the  rate  of  seven  times  a 
minute,  without  any  variations  that  I  can  detect. 
One  morning  when  I  was  timing  him  he  suddenly 
stopped  without  changing  his  position.  On  looking 
up  I  saw  a  big  hen-hawk  just  issuing  from  the  woods 
two  or  three  hundred  yards  above.  After  the  hawk 

97 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

had  sailed  away  and  disappeared  behind  the  woods, 
the  bird  went  on  with  his  singing.  The  red-eyed 
vireo  in  a  wood  near  by  was  repeating  his  song  much 
more  rapidly;  there  was  barely  a  perceptible  interval 
between  its  phrases.  This  bird  sings  as  he  feeds,  like 
the  warblers,  and  he  keeps  up  a  continuous  strain 
of  cheery  notes  nearly  all  summer.  He  comes  pretty 
near  being  a  perennial  songster. 

I  conclude,  then,  that  the  singing  of  birds  bears 
little  or  no  analogy  to  human  singing.  It  is  confined 
to  one  sex  and  to  a  particular  season,  and  is  simply 
the  overflowing  of  a  universal  impulse  in  living 
nature. 

In  the  care  of  their  young,  birds  show  something 
much  nearer  to  human  emotion  than  in  their  song. 
Their  untimely  signs  of  alarm  often  betray  them, 
but  in  the  agony  of  their  grief  they  are  very  human. 

Yesterday,  on  hearing  a  great  commotion  among 
the  birds  in  the  fruit  and  shade  trees  in  front  of  my 
house,  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  crow  making  off  with 
a  young,  unfledged  robin  in  his  beak,  pursued  by  a 
mob  of  birds  vociferating  loudly.  A  pair  of  robins, 
one  of  whose  young  the  black  devil  had  seized, 
screamed  in  agony.  It  was  the  ordinary  alarm  note 
uttered  under  such  a  pressure  of  excitement  that  it 
became  a  shrill  scream  like  that  which  a  human 
mother  might  utter  if  she  saw  an  eagle  or  a  wolf 
carrying  away  her  child.  There  can  be  little  doubt, 
I  thought,  that  the  cases  are  closely  parallel:  those 

98 


THE  SONGS  OF  BIRDS 

robins  clearly  experienced  what  we  must  call  pain, 
as  would  human  beings  under  like  circumstances. 
The  great  difference  is  that  with  the  birds  the  inci- 
dent is  soon  forgotten.  A  natural  instinct  is  out- 
raged, and  for  the  moment  the  birds  react  violently. 
But  the  divided  waters  soon  close,  and  the  loss  is 
forgotten.  In  the  case  of  the  human  mother  we  know 
it  is  different.  Birds  quickly  forget,  and  the  loss  of 
the  young  or  of  a  mate  is  usually  only  the  incident 
0f  a  day.  A  new  mate  is  quickly  found,  and  a  new 
brood  is  soon  on  the  road. 

The  wild  creatures  are  all  under  the  absolute  law 
of  Nature,  and  no  time  is  wasted  in  pity  or  regret. 
The  parental  affection  continues  so  long  as  the  well- 
being  of  the  young  demands  it,  and  little  longer. 
The  bluebirds  rearing  their  brood  on  the  corner  of 
my  porch  reared  an  earlier  brood  which  they  dis- 
missed weeks  ago,  and  which  now  gives  them  no 
more  concern.  To  keep  up  your  end  in  the  great 
adventure  of  peopling  the  world,  and  waste  no  time 
in  lamenting  over  your  failures,  is  the  unwritten  law 
of  Nature. 

Birds  with  the  flocking-instinct  sometimes  sing  in 
concert.  The  prettiest  instance  known  to  me  of  this 
habit  among  our  birds  is  that  of  the  goldfinches, 
which  in  spring  have  their  musical  reunions  —  a 
sort  of  sdngerfest  which  often  continues  for  days, 
and  during  which  the  matches  appear  to  be  made. 
But  with  most  of  our  birds  the  song  is  a  sort  of 

99 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

battle-flag  of  the  males,  and  when  they  unfurl  it, 
if  it  is  not  a  challenge,  it  certainly  indicates  that 
they  have  the  "fighting  edge."  It  is  a  notice  to  other 
males  that  "this  grove,  or  this  corner  of  the  field 
is  my  territory,  and  I  will  tolerate  no  trespassers." 

The  scarlet  tanager,  to  which  I  have  already  re- 
ferred, sings  almost  continuously.  His  battle-flag  is 
unfurled  nearly  all  of  the  time.  This  morning  I 
heard  a  rival  in  the  woods  below,  three  or  four  hun- 
dred yards  away.  The  two  birds  seemed  to  be  en- 
gaged in  a  song  contest.  Presently  the  one  in  the 
woods  came  down  to  a  maple-tree  in  the  pasture  as 
if  he  had  said,  "I  will  meet  the  braggart  halfway." 
The  other  bird  took  up  the  challenge  and  came  over 
to  the  edge  of  the  woods  near  the  pasture.  The  rival 
singers  soon  found  the  strain  too  great,  and  when  I 
looked  again  I  saw  one  pursuing  the  other  in  a  hur- 
ried, looping,  swooping  flight  through  the  air.  It 
appeared  to  have  been  a  "peace  without  victory," 
and  the  two  birds  were  soon  back,  each  on  his 
own  domain,  celebrating  his  triumph.  Such  song 
contests  and  collisions  are  very  common  among  the 
males  of  all  species  at  this  season. 

A  duet,  or  a  quartet,  or  a  sextet,  among  the  birds 
is  not  to  be  thought  of.  Each  singer  wants  at  least 
a  bit  of  the  listening  world  all  to  himself.  He  is  jeal- 
ous of  all  other  songsters  of  his  kind  if  they  encroach 
upon  his  domain.  Birds  that  sing  in  concert,  like 
the  goldfinches  and  the  grackles,  are  the  exception. 

100 


THE  SONGS  OF  BIRDS 

I  have  not  observed  that  the  robins  have  these  song 
contests,  but  the  robins  scrap  so  much  that  they 
surely  find  enough  other  provocations  to  arouse 
their  ire. 

That  caged  and  unmated  birds  sing  in  the  season 
of  song  shows  that  the  song  impulse  is  a  part  of  the 
great  breeding-passion  that  surges  through  all  ani- 
mal life  in  the  vernal  season.  It  is  one  with  the 
painted  flowers,  the  drifting  perfumes,  and  the 
extra  ornaments  and  appendages  that  so  many 
forms  of  life  put  on  in  fulfilling  the  primal  command 
to  "increase  and  multiply." 


VI 

ORCHARD  SECRETS 

AFTER  I  gave  up  hunting  for  the  bird's  nest 
I  found  it.  Day  after  day  I  had  searched 
through  my  orchard  for  a  kingbird's  nest  which  I 
knew  from  the  action  of  the  birds  and  their  con- 
stant presence  there  was  in  one  of  the  apple  or  pear 
trees.  I  looked  them  all  over  in  vain,  time  after 
time.  Then  I  lay  down  in  the  grass  under  one  of 
the  tall  trees  and  kept  my  eyes  on  the  birds.  It  was 
a  warm,  ripe  midsummer  afternoon  and  the  fra- 
grance of  the  world  of  grass  about  me  and  the  re- 
pose of  nature  on  all  sides  fairly  drowsed  my  senses. 
I  took  a  languid  interest  in  watching  the  two  birds 
and  seeing  them  climb  high  in  the  air,  now  and  then, 
and  overtake  some  bug  or  beetle  that  was  venturing 
forth  for  a  pleasure  flight  in  the  upper  regions  of  the 
air,  and  then  pitch  down  with  their  prey  in  their 
beaks. 

I  became  so  interested  in  these  aerial  excursions 
of  the  two  birds  and  the  lumbering,  slow-moving 
insects  that  they  were  picking  out  of  the  air,  that  I 
quite  forgot  the  nest.  After  a  while,  casually  turning 
my  head  to  one  side  to  rest  my  eyes,  I  saw  the  nest 
on  a  branch  not  twenty  feet  away  from  me.  Nests 
least  concealed  are  often  concealed  the  most.  The 

103 


ORCHARD  SECRETS 

thicker  foliage  and  the  closer  branches  of  the  near-by 
pear-trees  offered  much  more  concealment,  and  upon 
these  I  had  fixed  my  scrutiny,  and  had  only  run  my 
eye  hurriedly  over  the  more  open  branches  of  the 
apple-trees.  But  there  was  the  nest  near  the  end  of  a 
long,  low,  horizontal  branch,  with  no  screen  of  foU- 
age,  and  likely  to  escape  the  attention  on  this  very 
account. 

The  picture  of  those  kingbirds  going  slowly  up 
almost  straight  in  the  air  and  seizing  those  insects 
lingered  in  my  eye.  I  think  at  times  that  they  rose 
nearly  one  hundred  feet,  indicating  their  remarkably 
sharp  vision.  In  no  instance  could  I  see  the  bug. 
Probably  the  eyes  of  all  birds  are  much  sharper  than 
our  own.  Day  after  day  I  see  the  bluebird  fly  from 
her  perch  on  the  telephone- wire  in  front  of  me  to  the 
road  or  the  turf  forty  or  fifty  feet  away,  and  pick 
up  some  small  worm  or  insect  which  I  myself  could 
not  see.  Probably  the  optical  instrument  of  birds 
is  no  more  perfect  or  powerful  than  our  own,  but 
the  big  brain  behind  it  —  big  relatively  —  is  con- 
stantly thinking  bug  or  worm,  so  to  speak.  I  pre- 
sume most  men  could  see  a  gold  dollar  farther  than 
a  bird  could.  The  hawk  poised  on  wing  high  in 
the  air  will  see  a  field  mouse  in  the  grass  beneath 
him  that  under  the  same  conditions  would  escape 
our  vision.  Field  mice  are  in  its  mind,  yes,  in  its 
blood.  The  buzzard,  "housing  herself  in  the  sky,'* 
sees  with  her  craving  maw  her  proper  food  miles  and 

103 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

miles  away.  Our  vision,  under  the  circumstances, 
would  not   distinguish  the  carcass  of  pig  or  dog 
from  any  other  small  object  on  the  ground.  There 
is  speculation  in  the  eye  of  the  buzzard.   It  is  a 
great  help  to  the  eye  to  know  what  it  is  looking  for. 
But  to  return.  Birds'  nests  may  be  found  by 
searching.   Yesterday   four   of   us  —  three   young 
women  and  myself  —  went  out  into  the  small  or- 
chard that  holds  the  kingbird's  nest,  and  by  careful 
scrutiny  of  each  tree  we  found  five  other  nests  — 
a  red-eyed  vireo's,  a  cedar-bird's,  a   goldfinch's, 
a  chippie's,  and  a  song  sparrow's.   Song  sparrows 
are  habitually  ground  birds,  but  they  occasion- 
ally take  advantage  of  a  tree.  I  had  never  before 
seen  one  build  a  nest  fifteen  feet  from  the  ground. 
Evidently  the  little  bird  felt  that  its  tree  enemies 
were  less  to  be  feared  than  its  ground  enemies.  I  had 
had  a  glimpse  a  day  or  two  before  of  one  of  its 
ground  enemies  in  the  grass  under  the  nest,  in  the 
shape  of  a  skunk.  His  approach  was  betrayed  by 
the  trembling  of  the  grass.  I  called  *'Halt!"  to  him, 
when  he  stopped  and  worked  his  nose  in  my  direc- 
tion for  a  moment,  then  turned  and  with  tail  erect 
ready  for  action,  retraced  his  steps  to  the  wood- 
chuck-hole  under  the  wall.  Both  by  night  and  by 
day  these  prowlers  destroy  many  birds'  nests.  The 
cedar-bird  was  the  rarest  find,  and  I  had  great  pleas- 
ure in  observing  the  manners  of  the  parent  birds. 
They  made  no  outcry,  but  were  the  personification 

104 


ORCHARD  SECRETS 

of  silent  fear.  The  male  as  he  sat  on  a  branch  near 
the  nest  stood  up  straight  and  stiff,  still  as  if  frozen, 
with  crest  flattened  and  plumage  closely  furled.  The 
head  of  the  female,  visible  above  the  rim  of  the  nest, 
showed  the  same  alarm.  The  silent  expression  of 
both  birds  was  as  eloquent  as  the  most  demonstra- 
tive outcry.  The  vireos  gave  themselves  away  by 
their  plaintive  and  agitated  cries,  the  female  show- 
ing much  the  more  concern.  A  close  scrutiny  of  the 
outer  end  of  the  lower  branches  of  the  trees  soon 
revealed  the  little  gray,  closely  woven  basket  sus- 
pended between  two  twigs,  seven  or  eight  feet  from 
the  ground,  A  daintier  and  prettier  nest  than  the 
vireo's  cannot  be  found.    We  feel  sure  that  there 
is  the  nest  of  the  wood  pewee  in  the  old  orchard 
yet  to  be  discovered.  This  is  a  nest  of  a  different 
order  —  a  cup  and  not  a  basket,  but  it  is  so  com- 
pactly and  smoothly  modeled,  and  so  harmonizes 
with  the  branch  upon  which  it  is  placed,  by  bits  of 
lichen  with  which  it  is  covered,  that  it  delights 
the  eye  equally  with  that  of  the  vireo,  and  is  still 
harder  to  find.  The  tribe  of  vireos  have  doubtless 
learned  from  long  experience  that  the  safest  places 
to  build  their  nests  are  where  we  invariably  find 
them,  near  the  end  of  long,  low  branches  of  trees  and 
bushes.  The  crows  and  jays  are  almost  sure  to  over- 
look them  here,  and  the  cowbird  in  looking  for  a 
nest  in  which  to  drop  stealthily  her  egg  is  equally 
baffled.  The  goldfinch  is  also  a  superior  bird  archi- 

105 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

tect.  Its  nest  is  massive  for  so  small  a  body  —  thick, 
compact,  smooth,  soft,  deep,  and  securely  held  in 
the  small  forks  of  an  upper  branch.  Much  thistle- 
down is  ordinarily  used  in  its  construction. 

The  chipping  sparrow  is  a  poor  nest-builder  com- 
pared with  either  of  the  foregoing  birds.  Her  nest  is 
loosely  woven  of  small  sticks  and  straws,  and  is 
rarely  well-secured  to  the  branches.  The  sudden 
summer  gusts  of  rain  and  wind  wreck  more  chippies' 
nests  than  those  of  any  other  tree-builders. 

The  kingbird  is  a  harsh-voiced  and  harsh-man- 
nered bird,  and  its  nest  of  crabbed  rootlets  and 
sticks  and  straws  is  in  keeping. 

A  few  weeks  later  in  the  season  I  had  a  curious, 
but  at  first  rather  painful,  experience  with  the  gold- 
finch's nest.  The  nest  was  remarkably  well  hidden, 
and  the  parent  birds  were  so  cunning  that  with  all 
my  watching  from  my  hammock  a  few  yards  away 
I  never  once  saw  either  of  them  near  the  nest.  Fi- 
nally in  August  I  concluded  that  the  nest  was  not 
occupied,  and  I  did  what  I  rarely  do  with  a  bird's 
nest,  I  proceeded  to  "collect"  it.  With  a  long  pole 
I  lifted  it  from  out  the  forked  branch  that  held  it, 
and  after  considerable  engineering,  caused  it  to 
fall  to  the  ground.  As  it  did  so,  to  my  dismay,  a 
young  bird  fell  from  the  nest  and  struck  the  stub- 
bled  groimd  heavily.  The  nest  landed  bottom  side 
up.  Turning  it  over,  I  was  shocked  to  find  three 
young  birds  nearly  half  grown,  wedged  into  the 

106 


ORCHAKD  SECRETS 

bottom  of  it  and  lying  so  closely  and  so  still  that 
they  seemed  a  part  of  the  nest.  They  made  no  sign, 
their  eyes  were  closed,  they  flattened  themselves 
down,  and  clmig  to  the  nest  with  silent  tenacity. 
I  was  in  a  "pickle."  What  could  I  do  toward 
undoing  what  I  had  so  rashly  done.?  The  mother 
bird  now  appeared,  and  in  the  near-by  branches 
called  out  in  shy,  plaintive  tones,  '*Pi-ty,  pi-ty," 
but  did  not  come  into  the  tree  where  her  nest  had 
been. 

After  some  delay,  with  the  aid  of  a  ladder,  I 
placed  the  nest  in  a  forked  branch  four  or  five  feet 
below  the  original  position.  I  had  serious  doubts 
about  the  success  of  the  experiment  as  not  once 
during  the  two  or  more  hours  that  I  was  on  the  look- 
out did  either  of  the  parent  birds  enter  the  tree.  But 
next  morning  I  found  all  four  of  the  young  birds 
warm  and  hugging  the  nest  as  closely  as  ever.  Not 
once  during  the  days  that  followed  did  I  see  the  pa- 
rent birds  approach  the  nest  or  show  themselves  in 
near-by  trees.  Still  the  young  grew  and  presently 
their  backs  and  heads  began  to  show  above  the  rim 
of  the  nest,  till  finally  I  found  one  of  them  perched 
on  its  rim.  It  was  not  many  hours  after  that  before 
the  nest  was  empty,  and  later  the  young  were  fol- 
lowing their  parents  about  the  fields  from  thistle  to 
thistle,  uttering  that  childlike  note  which  sounds 
like  "Ba-by,  ba-by,"  a  sound  I  knew  so  well  in  late 
summer  when  I  was  a  boy  on  the  old  farm. 

107 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

The  di^50ove^y  of  a  binl's  nest  is  usually  so  much 
a  matter  of  chance  that  I  always  consider  myself  in 
luck  when  I  find  one.  One  morning  in  a  little  op>en- 
ing  which  the  woodchoppers  had  made  in  the  beech 
woods,  I  stumbled  upon  a  junco's  nest.  It  was  in  a 
mossy  bank  ne:\T  a  pile  of  cord  wood.  The  mother 
bird  flew  out  from  the  little  cavity  in  which  the  nest 
was  placed,  when  I  w:is  about  a  yard  from  her. 
After  tliat,  in  mj'  walk,  I  fomid  m.v  steps  very  often 
taking  tliat  course.  In  some  way  I  felt  m\'self  re- 
sponsible for  tliat  ne^t.  I  wanted  to  see  it  tlirough. 
Then  a  bit  of  still  wild  hfe  in  tlie  grei\t  unkempt, 
haph;iz;ird  out-of-doors,  exposed  to  so  man^'  dan- 
gers Ix^th  by  night  and  by  day,  so  frail  and  so  en- 
gaging, one  of  the  most  ple^ising  open  secrets  in  all 
the  woods  and  fields,  drew  me  by  a  magic  all  its  own. 
A  larije  herd  of  dairv  cows  browsed  and  trailed 
through  these  woods  and  I  wondered  if  the  httle 
nest  could  long  escape  tlieir  hoofs.  The  night  prowl- 
ers, too,  —  the  skunks,  foxes,  coons,  cats,  —  would 
they  all  pass  it  by?  I  used  to  linger  about  it.  I  could 
see  the  bird's  white  beak  and  her  black,  shining 
eyes  there  in  the  small  ca^-ity.  partly  screened  by 
\*ines  and  wild,  woodsy  growths.  The  spot  seemed  a 
little  different  from  all  others.  I  laid  some  poles  and 
brush  carelessly  about  to  ward  off  the  cows.  One 
hot  morning  I  sat  a  long  time  on  a  rock  near  by, 
I>artly  to  enjoy  the  cool  breeze  and  partly  to  be  near 
the  junco.  I  occasionally  saw  the  male  hanging 

108 


ORCILAJID  SECRETS 

about.  It  was  interesting  to  speculate  as  to  whether 
or  not  he  understood  what  kept  his  mate  there. 
This  was  doubtless  their  second  brood.  A  month 
earlier  I  had  discovered  a  junc-o's  nest  under  the 
roots  by  the  wooded  roadside,  on  the  summit  of  one 
of  the  Catskill  ranges.  As  I  paused  to  wipe  my  brow, 
the  mother  bird  slid  out  from  the  bank  only  a  step 
from  me  and  went  trailing  her  plumage  across  the 
road.  The  nest  was  placed  nearly  a  foot  under  the 
interlacing  roots  of  the  trees. 

The  gentle  divinities  safeguarded  my  bird  of  the 
beech  woods,  and  her  brood  was  successfully 
laimched. 

I  am  interested  in  birds'  nests  which  I  do  not  find, 
but  of  which  I  have  only  a  hint.  One  July  day  a 
fully  fledged  rose-breasted  grosbeak,  evidently  a 
good  deal  bewildered  by  his  first  trip  in  the  world, 
came  into  our  veranda  and  clung  to  the  rafters 
above  our  heads.  The  male  grosbeak  was  following 
him  in  an  anxious  state  of  mind  and  alighted  in  a 
near-by  tree.  I  took  my  cane  and,  gently  insinuat- 
ing it  under  the  young  bird,  induced  him  to  let  go 
the  rafters  and  cling  to  it.  Then  I  carried  him  to  the 
open  and  gave  him  a  chanc-e  again  to  try  his  wings. 
The  parent  bird  followed  him  till  both  were  lost 
from  sight.  I  hunted  the  orchard  over  in  vain  for 
the  nest.  It  was  probably  in  the  woods  above  or 
along  some  bushy  fence-row.  The  rose-breast  is 
such  a  rare  and  striking  bird  that  the  incident  makes 

109 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

a  bright  spot  in  my  memory  of  that  summer 
afternoon. 

A  chickadee  had  a  nest  somewhere  in  the  old 
orchard,  but  we  failed  to  find  it.  Several  mornings 
in  succession  she  came  upon  the  veranda  and  filled 
her  beak  with  the  long  woolen  nap  from  my  steamer 
rug.  She  was  very  bold,  as  chickadees  usually  are, 
and  did  not  mind  a  bit  my  standing  a  few  feet  away 
and  upbraiding  her. 

"You  are  not  a  good  neighbor,"  I  said  —  "rob- 
bing my  bed  to  furnish  your  own.'* 

She  only  kept  her  beadlike  eyes  upon  me  and  went 
on  with  the  pilfering.  She  made  a  very  pretty  appear- 
ance with  her  beak  filled  with  the  yellow,  green,  and 
black  wool  —  a  nest-lining,  I  venture  to  say,  that 
she  had  never  had  before.  Each  time  she  disap- 
peared around  the  comer  of  the  house  into  the 
orchard  so  quickly  that  my  eye  failed  to  follow  her. 
I  only  hope  that  her  brood  throve  and  that  she  will 
come  back  next  summer  to  help  herself  to  my  supply 
of  wool. 

The  hermit  thrush  that  came  two  mornings  in 
September  and  fed  upon  the  berries  of  the  tall 
spikenard  plant  that  grows  in  the  rear  of  the  house 
under  the  pantry  window,  had  probably  had  a  nest 
in  the  near-by  woods  or  on  the  mountain  above,  as 
the  hermit  was  in  song  there  earlier  in  the  season, 
but  I  never  chanced  upon  it  in  my  walks.  It  was  a 
pleasure  to  have  this  rare  songster  come  to  my  door 

110 


ORCHARD  SECRETS 

for  his  breakfast.  How  much  he  brought  with  him 
of  the  wild  grace  and  harmony  of  nature! 

I  also  became  interested  in  a  pair  of  bobolinks 
which  had  a  nest  in  a  meadow  by  the  roadside 
where  I  passed  daily.  A  singular  thing  about  it  was 
that  there  were  two  males  and  only  one  female. 
When  I  approached,  one  of  the  males  and  the  fe- 
male showed  great  agitation.  Hovering  in  the  air 
above  me,  they  gave  away  the  secret  of  the  cause 
of  their  agitation  in  vociferous  tones,  while  the 
second  male  remained  entirely  indifferent.  Clearly 
it  was  not  a  case  of  plurality  of  husbands,  and  it 
looked  as  if  the  second  male  was  there  only  to  keep 
them  company. 

Bobolinks  in  our  Northern  meadows  are  becom- 
ing more  and  more  rare,  and  this  was  unmistakably 
a  case  where  there  were  more  males  than  females. 

Although  bobolinks  always  show  unusual  agita- 
tion as  you  approach  the  vicinity  of  their  nest,  they 
are  very  careful  not  to  give  away  its  precise  locality. 
Their  solicitude  embraces  the  whole  meadow.  They 
will  follow  you  from  one  end  to  the  other  with  the 
same  outcry  and  protest,  but  you  may  linger  about 
for  hours  and  not  get  any  clue  to  the  particular  tuft 
of  grass  where  the  secret  is  hidden. 


VII 
NATURE  IN  LITTLE 

NATURA  in  minirais  existat."  This  saying  of 
Aristotle's  is  usually  translated  as  if  it  meant 
that  Nature  is  seen  only,  or  more  fully,  in  "leasts," 
whereas  it  is  more  probable  that  Aristotle  meant  to 
say  that  Nature  is  as  complete  in  the  small  as  the 
great,  that  she  is  whole  in  all  her  parts  —  as  much 
in  evidence  in  the  minute  as  in  the  gigantic,  in  the 
herb  as  in  the  oak,  in  the  gnat  as  in  the  elephant, 
in  the  pond  as  in  the  sea.  In  the  clay-bank  washed 
by  rains  you  may  perceive  the  same  sculpturing  and 
modeling  that  you  see  in  vast  mountain-chains.  In 
California  I  have  seen,  in  a  small  mound  of  clay 
by  the  roadside  that  had  been  exposed  to  the 
weather  for  a  few  years,  a  reproduction  in  miniature 
of  the  range  of  mountains  that  towered  above  it,  the 
Sierra  Madre. 

A  rivulet  winding  through  a  plain  loops  the  same 
loops  and  ox-bows  that  the  Mississippi  makes  trav- 
ersing the  prairie  States.  The  physical  laws  at 
work  are  the  same  in  both  cases.  Has  not  some  poet 
said  that  the  same  law  that  shapes  a  teardrop  shapes 
a  planet?  The  little  whirlwind  that  dances  before 
you  along  the  road  in  summer,  and  maybe  snatches 
your  hat  from  your  head,  is  a  miniature  cyclone, 

112 


NATURE  IN  LITTLE 

and  in  our  hemisphere  it  rotates  in  the  same  direc- 
tion —  in  opposition  to  the  hands  of  a  clock. 

Mere  size  does  not  count  for  much  with  Nature; 
she  is  all  there,  in  the  least  as  in  the  greatest.  A  drop 
of  dew  reveals  the  rainbow  tints  as  well  as  the  myriad 
drops  of  the  summer  shower,  and  the  bow  hovers 
in  the  spray  of  a  small  waterfall  as  surely  as  in  that 
of  Niagara.  The  thunderbolt  leaps  with  no  more 
speed  across  the  black  chasm  of  the  clouded  heavens, 
than  does  the  electric  spark  in  your  laboratory  leap 
across  the  tiny  spaces  from  one  pole  to  the  other. 

But  the  big-lettered  and  startling  headlines  in 
Nature's  book  occupy  the  real  nature-lover  less 
than  does  the  smaller  print.  The  big  and  exceptional 
things  all  can  see,  but  only  the  loving  observers 
take  note  of  the  minor  facts  and  incidents. 

Emerson  in  his  journal  thinks  it  worth  while  to 
notice  the  jokes  of  Nature.  He  cites  the  Punch  faces 
in  the  English  violets,  the  parrots,  the  monkeys,  the 
lapwing's  limping,  and  the  Uke  petty  stratagems  of 
other  birds.  He  might  have  cited  the  little  green 
tody  of  Jamaica,  which  is  a  clownish-looking  little 
bird  with  its  green  suit  and  big  golden  beak,  as  if  it 
might  be  playing  a  part  in  some  bird  carnival.  The 
puffins  of  the  Northern  seas,  with  their  jewlike  pro- 
files and  short  legs,  also  suggest  the  comic  side  of 
Nature,  as  do  the  big  gray  pelicans  in  the  Southern 
seas.  On  the  wing,  or  riding  on  the  wave,  the  peli- 
can has  a  bulky,  awkward  look.    But  there  are 

113 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

moments  in  its  life  every  hour  when  a  sudden  and 
complete  transformation  in  its  appearance  takes 
place;  and  those  are  when  it  dives  for  a  fish.  Its 
heavy  flight  is  suddenly  arrested  in  the  air  fifty  or 
more  feet  above  the  water,  and  a  striking  change 
in  its  looks  and  manner  takes  place;  it  turns  down- 
ward, its  pouchlike  bill  becomes  a  long,  straight 
dagger,  its  wings  are  furled,  and  its  whole  form  be- 
comes like  a  gigantic  arrowhead  which  shoots  down- 
ward and  smites  the  water  like  a  thunderbolt.  The 
spray  flies,  you  hear  the  concussion,  and  the  huge 
form  disappears  beneath  the  wave.  But  only  for  a 
second;  in  a  twinkling  it  is  again  riding  on  the  water, 
looking  as  awkward  and  as  commonplace  as  ever. 
But  of  course  Nature  does  not  joke;  it  is  man  that 
jokes  and  experiences  a  sense  of  humor  in  certain 
of  her  forms,  but  all  these  forms  have  serious  pur- 
poses. Inanimate  things  often  behave  in  a  way  to 
excite  one's  risibles,  but  that  end  can  be  no  part  of 
the  plan  of  Nature.  When  inanimate  things  act  like 
human  beings  we  laugh,  and  when  human  beings 
act  like  inanimate  things  we  laugh;  why  we  laugh 
it  would  not  be  easy  to  say. 

Most  animals  certainly  have  a  keen  sense  of  play, 
but  it  is  very  doubtful  if  even  so  humanized  an  ani- 
mal as  the  dog  has  any  sense  of  humor.  The  gro- 
tesque is  pretty  sure  to  frighten  him  instead  of 
amusing  him.  The  sense  of  humor  implies  powers  of 
ideation,  which  the  lower  animals  do  not  possess. 

114 


NATURE  IN  LITTLE 

The  waltzing  and  saluting  and  other  courtship  an- 
tics of  certain  birds  are  very  amusing  to  the  human 
spectator,  but  it  is  all  a  very  serious  business  with 
the  birds.  I  always  have  to  smile  when  I  see  a  chip- 
munk come  up  out  of  his  hole  into  which  he  has 
been  hurrying  his  winter  food-supply,  stand  up 
straight  on  his  hind  legs,  and  quickly  wash  his  face. 
How  rapidly  he  passes  his  paws  over  that  delicate 
nose  and  face,  looking  around  the  while  to  see  if 
any  danger  is  near!  He  does  this  at  every  trip. 
When  we  say  on  witnessing  any  act  of  an  animal, 
"How  cunning!"  we  feel,  I  suppose,  a  sense  of  its 
humanness;  it  suggests  our  own  behavior  under  Uke 
conditions. 

Last  spring  the  vanishing  of  the  deep  snows  from 
my  lawn  gave  me  a  glimpse  of  the  life  and  works  of 
the  meadow  mice  in  their  winter  freedom  under  the 
snow.  At  one  place  standing  out  very  clearly  was  a 
long  mouse  highway,  sunken  into  the  turf  and  lead- 
ing to  a  large  dome-shaped  nest  of  diy  grass  which 
it  entered  by  a  round  hole  on  one  side,  and  came 
out  by  a  hole  on  the  other,  then  forking  and  be- 
coming two  highways  leading  off  over  the  turf.  It 
suggested  a  tiny  railroad  station  with  its  converging 
lines.  "How  cunning!"  exclaimed  some  school- 
children and  their  teacher  to  whom  I  pointed  it  out. 
The  mice  had  enjoyed  the  privacy,  freedom,  and 
safety  there  under  the  two  feet  of  snow,  as  the 
record  they  left  clearly  showed. 

115 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

I  smiled  one  day  last  April  when,  walking  near 
the  edge  of  a  small  pond,  I  saw  a  muskrat  on  shore 
very  busy  stuflfing  his  mouth  with  dry  leaves,  then 
taking  to  the  water,  holding  his  bedding  well  up  till 
he  came  opposite  to  his  hole  in  the  bank,  when  he 
dived  and  swam  to  its  underwater  entrance.  My 
smile  was  provoked,  I  suppose,  by  the  discrepancy 
between  the  care  the  animal  took  to  secure  dry 
leaves,  and  the  necessity  that  compelled  it  to  plunge 
under  the  wave  in  order  to  reach  its  chamber.  I  do 
not  suppose  the  muskrat  could  have  interpreted 
my  smile  had  he  seen  it  and  tried. 

I  was  interested  and  amused  by  the  behavior  of 
the  big  garter  snake  I  met  in  my  field  walk  one 
October  day.  The  day  was  chilly  and  I  could  not  stir 
the  snake  into  any  considerable  degree  of  activity. 
He  was  sluggish  and  made  no  effort  to  escape, 
though  I  teased  him  with  my  cane  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  He  presently  woke  up  enough  to  scent 
danger  in  my  cane.  Probably  he  had  a  dim  sense 
that  it  was  another  snake.  He  flattened  himself  out 
and  became  a  half-round,  opened  his  mouth  threat- 
eningly, but  would  not  seize  or  strike  my  stick.  He 
coiled  beautifully  and  when  I  turned  him  on  his 
back  he  righted  himself  quickly  by  a  movement  the 
whole  length  of  his  body.  After  a  while  I  noticed 
that  his  body  began  to  contract  at  a  point  about 
one  third  the  distance  from  the  end  of  the  tail;  then, 
as  I  continued  my  teasing,  he  folded  the  rear  part 

116 


NATURE  IN  LITTLE 

of  his  body  back  upon  himself  and  twined  it  around 
the  forward,  Hke  a  vine  doubling  upon  itself.  If  he 
was  taking  precautions  against  my  stick  as  another 
snake  trying  to  swallow  him,  it  was  good  tactics;  it 
would  have  made  the  problem  of  swallowing  him 
much  more  diflBcult.  I  do  not  think  it  at  all  probable 
that  the  snake  had  ever  experienced  such  uncivil 
treatment  before,  and  the  emergency  was  met  by 
the  best  resources  the  poor  half -benumbed  creature 
had.  "Swallow  me,  if  you  will,  but  I  will  stick  in 
your  throat  if  I  can."  I  left  him  unharmed,  doubled 
and  twisted  in  self-defense. 

Jokes  in  nature,  no!  but  there  are  curious  and 
amusing  forms  and  incidents,  grotesque  shapes, 
preposterous  color  schemes  and  appendages,  from 
our  point  of  view,  but  all  a  serious  part  of  the  com- 
plex web  of  animal  life. 

The  transparent  trick  of  the  ground-building 
birds  to  decoy  you  from  their  nests  or  young  is  very- 
amusing,  but  the  heart  of  the  poor  mother  bird  is 
in  her  mouth. 

The  cock,  or  mock,  nests  of  the  house  wren  and 
marsh  wren  look  like  jokes;  in  fact  the  wrens  them- 
selves seem  like  jokes,  they  are  so  pert  and  fussy 
and  attitudinizing,  but  whether  these  extra  nests 
are  sham  nests,  or  whether  they  are  the  result  of 
the  overflowing  measure  of  the  breeding-instinct, 
or  are  decoy  nests,  serving  a  real  purpose  in  con- 
cealing or  protecting  the  real  nest,  is  a  question. 

117 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

There  are  more  tragedies  in  wild  life  than  come- 
dies, and  fear  is  a  much  more  active  agent  in  devel- 
opment than  joy  or  peace.  The  only  two  of  our  more 
common  wild  animals  that  I  recall,  in  which  the 
instinct  or  impulse  of  fear  is  low,  are  the  porcupine 
and  the  skunk.  Both  are  pretty  effectively  armed 
against  their  natural  enemies  and  both  are  very 
slow,  stupid  animals. 

When  I  stop  to  contemplate  the  ways  of  the  wild 
creatures  around  me  and  the  part  they  play  in  the 
all-the-year-round  drama,  my  thoughts  are  pretty 
sure  to  rest  for  a  while  on  the  crow.  From  the  wide 
distribution  of  the  crow  over  the  earth  in  some  form, 
it  would  appear  that  Nature  has  him  very  much  at 
heart.  She  has  equipped  him  to  make  his  way  in 
widely  diversified  lands  and  climates.  He  thrives 
upon  the  shore  and  he  thrives  upon  the  mountains. 
He  is  not  strictly  a  bird  of  prey,  neither  is  he  preyed 
upon.  What  is  it  in  nature  that  he  expresses  .^^  True, 
he  expresses  cunning,  hardiness,  sociability;  but  he 
is  not  alone  in  these  things.  Yet  the  crow  is  unique; 
he  is  a  character,  and  at  times  one  is  almost  per- 
suaded that  he  has  a  vein  of  humor  in  him.  Probably 
no  country  boy  who  has  had  a  tame  crow  has  any 
doubt  about  it.  His  mischief-making  propensities  are 
certainly  evident.  His  soliloquies,  his  deliberate  cat- 
calls and  guttural  sounds,  his  petty  stealings,  his 
teasing  of  other  animals,  his  impudent  curiosity,  all 
stamp  him  as  a  bird  full  of  the  original  Adam. 

118 


NATURE  IN  LITTLE 

Country  people  are  now  much  more  friendly  to 
the  crow  than  they  were  in  my  boyhood.  He  is  not 
so  black  as  he  was  painted.  The  farmers  have 
learned  that  he  is  their  friend,  for  all  his  occasional 
corn-pulling  and  chicken-stealing.  His  is  the  one 
voice  you  are  pretty  sure  to  hear  wherever  your  walk 
leads  you.  He  is  at  home  and  about  his  own  business. 
It  is  not  his  grace  as  a  flyer  that  pleases  us;  he  is 
heavy  and  commonplace  on  the  wing  —  no  airiness, 
no  easy  mastery  as  with  the  hawks;  only  when  he 
walks  is  he  graceful.  How  much  at  home  he  looks 
upon  the  ground  —  an  ebony  clod-hopper,  but  in 
his  bearing  the  lord  of  the  soil.  He  always  looks 
prosperous;  he  always  looks  contented;  his  voice 
is  always  reassuring.  The  farmer  may  be  disgruntled 
and  discouraged,  his  crows  are  not.  The  country  is 
good  enough  for  them;  they  can  meet  their  engage- 
ments; they  do  not  borrow  trouble;  they  have  not 
lived  on  the  credit  of  the  future;  their  acres  are  not 
mortgaged.  The  crow  is  a  type  of  the  cheerful,  suc- 
cessful countryman.  He  is  not  a  bird  of  leisure;  he 
is  always  busy,  going  somewhere,  or  policing  the 
woods,  or  saluting  his  friends,  or  calling  together  the 
clans,  or  mobbing  a  hawk,  or  spying  out  new  feed- 
ing-grounds, or  taking  stock  of  the  old,  or  just 
cawing  to  keep  in  touch  with  his  fellows.  He  is  very 
sociable;  he  has  many  engagements,  now  to  the 
woods,  now  to  the  fields,  now  to  this  valley,  now  to 
the  next  —  a  round  of  pleasure  or  duty  all  the  day 

119 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

long.  Not  given  to  solitude  and  contemplation  like 
the  proud  hawks,  not  pugnacious,  never  or  rarely 
quarreling  with  his  fellows,  cheerfully  sharing  his 
last  morsel  with  them,  playing  sentinel  while  they 
feed,  suspicious,  inquisitive,  cunning,  but  never  hid- 
ing; as  open  as  the  day  in  his  manners,  proclaim- 
ing his  whereabouts  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  looking 
upon  you  as  the  intruder  and  himself  as  the  rightful 
occupant.  The  stiller  the  day  the  more  noise  he 
makes.  He  is  never  a  sneaker,  never  has  the  air  of 
a  prowler.  He  is  always  in  the  public  eye  or  ear.  His 
color  gives  him  away,  his  voice  gives  him  away; 
on  the  earth  or  in  the  sky  he  is  seen  and  heard  afar. 
No  creature  wants  his  flesh,  no  lady  wants  his 
plume,  though  a  more  perfect  and  brilliant  ebony 
cannot  be  found  in  nature.  He  is  a  bit  of  the  night 
with  the  sheen  of  the  stars  in  it,  yet  the  open  day  is 
his  province,  pubHcity  his  passion.  He  is  a  spy,  a 
policeman,  a  thief,  a  good  fellow,  a  loyal  friend,  an 
alarmist,  a  socialist,  all  in  one.  Winter  makes  him 
gregarious,  as  it  does  many  men;  at  night  he  seeks 
the  populous  rookery  in  the  woods,  by  day  he 
wanders  in  bands  seeking  food.  In  spring  he  estab- 
lishes a  crow  network  all  over  the  country  and  is 
rarely  out  of  earshot  of  some  of  his  fellows.  How  we 
should  miss  him  from  the  day!  Among  our  com- 
munity of  birds  he  is  the  conspicuous,  all-the-year- 
round  feature.  We  do  not  love  him,  there  is  no 
poetry  in  his  soul;  but  he  challenges  our  attention, 

120 


NATURE  IN  LITTLE 

he  is  at  home  in  the  landscape,  he  is  never  disgrun- 
tled. Come  rain,  come  shine,  come  heat,  come  snow, 
he  is  on  his  job  and  is  always  reassuring. 

The  book  of  nature  is  always  open  winter  and 
smnmer  and  is  always  within  reach,  and  the  print  is 
legible  if  we  have  eyes  to  read  it.  But  most  persons 
are  too  preoccupied  to  have  their  attention  arrested 
by  it.  Think  of  the  amazing  number  of  natural 
things  and  incidents  that  must  come  under  the  ob- 
servations of  the  farmer,  the  miner,  the  hunter,  that 
do  not  interest  him,  because  they  are  aside  from  his 
main  purpose.  I  see  a  farmer  getting  his  cows  every 
morning  in  the  early  dawn  while  the  dew  is  on  the 
grass  and  all  nature  is  just  waking  up,  and  think, 
during  the  twenty  or  more  years  that  he  has  been 
doing  this,  what  interesting  and   significant  inci- 
dents he  might  have  witnessed  in  the  lives  of  the 
wild  creatures,  if  his  mind  had  been  alert  to  such 
happenings!  But  it  was  not.  He  noticed  only  his 
cows,  or  where  his  fences  needed  mending,  or  where 
a  spring   needed  clearing  out.   What   a  harvest 
Thoreau  would  have  gathered  during  that  score 
or  more  of  years!  From  ant  to  bumble-bee,  and 
from  bumble-bee  to  hawks  and  eagles,  he  would 
have  caught  the  significant  things.  Rarely  can  the 
farmer  tell  the  poet  or  the  naturalist  anything  he 
wants  to  know,  because  he  has  not  the  seeing  eye 
or  the  hearing  ear.  The  fox-hunter  can  tell  you  of  the 

121 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

foxes  he  has  killed  or  pursued,  and  just  what  it  was 
that  turned  those  that  escaped  him  from  their  run- 
way, but  he  can  tell  you  little  about  the  lesser 
game  —  what  the  mice  and  squirrels  are  doing,  or 
the  chickadees  or  woodpeckers  are  saying;  his  inter- 
ests lie  elsewhere.  Downy  might  be  excavating  his 
winter  retreat  in  a  dry  stub  or  branch  over  his 
head,  and  he  not  know  it.  A  chipmunk  might  be 
digging  his  hole  in  the  field  the  farmer  is  ploughing 
in  September,  and  he  none  the  wiser.  The  poet  can 
say  to  the  farmer:  — 

**One  harvest  from  the  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong; 
A  second  crop  thine  acres  yield 
Which  1  gather  in  a  song." 

And  an  Audubon  or  a  Fabre  would  bring  home  an 
equal  and  a  different  harvest. 

Our  interest  in  nature  is  a  reflection  of  our  inter- 
est in  ourselves;  nature  is  ourselves  extended  and 
seen  externally.  We  experience  a  thrill  of  interest 
when  we  learn  that  the  plants  breathe  and  sleep  as 
we  do;  that  they  have  ingenious  devices  for  dis- 
seminating their  seed  and  for  securing  cross-ferti- 
lization; that  there  is  competition  among  them  and 
among  the  trees  for  the  light  and  air  and  moisture 
and  the  fertility  of  the  soil;  that  they  protect  them- 
selves against  the  sun  and  the  cold,  and  against 
the  wet.    They  have  all  their  struggles  and  their 

122 


NATURE  IN  LITTLE 

enemies  as  we  do,  their  youth,  their  maturity,  their 
ripe  old  age. 

How  curious  it  is  that  the  air-plants  should  be 
able  to  get  their  mineral  elements  from  the  air  as  if 
this  all  but  impalpable  fluid  were  a  soil  full  of  hme 
and  magnesia  and  silica,  and  the  plant  pushed  in- 
visible roots  into  it!  In  Florida  how  often  I  used 
to  pause  and  regard  them  when  I  saw  them  growing 
upon  gate-posts  or  dead  tree-trunks  and  flourishing 
so  luxuriantly !  I  burned  some  of  them  up  to  see  if 
they  left  any  ashes  and  was  surprised  at  the  amount. 
Is  this  semi-tropical  air,  then,  so  loaded  with  all  these 
mineral  elements?  How  much  I  wished  to  see  the 
mechanical  or  chemical  devices  by  which  the  plants 
seized  it  or  strained  it  out  of  the  air!  A  Russian 
chemist  says  that  "if  a  linen  surface  moistened  with 
an  acid  be  placed  in  perfectly  pure  air,  then  the 
washings  are  found  to  contain  sodium,  calcium, 
iron,  potassium.  Linen  moistened  with  an  alkali 
absorbs  carbonic,  sulphuric,  phosphoric,  and  hydro- 
chloric acids."  The  presence  of  organic  substances 
in  the  air  can  be  proved  by  similar  experiments. 
The  cosmic  dust  in  the  air  from  the  wear  and  tear 
of  the  vast  sidereal  machinery,  not  detectable  by 
any  of  our  human  senses,  may  also  be  a  source  of 
some  of  the  mineral  elements  in  the  air-plants.  It  is 
evidently  by  the  aid  of  the  acids  in  the  leaf  that 
these   plants  trap  and  appropriate  the  iron  and 
the  potassium.  The  atmosphere,  then,  seems  like 

123 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

another  and  finer  earth  possessing  nearly  all  the 
mineral  and  gaseous  and  living  organisms,  a  finer 
world  superimposed  upon  the  world  in  which  we 
live.  It  is  the  watery  vapor  in  the  air,  as  it  is  the 
liquid  water  in  the  earth  that  holds  in  infinite  divi- 
sion the  various  earth  salts  upon  which  the  plants 
feed.  An  air-plant  and  an  earth-plant,  then,  do  not 
differ  so  fundamentally  as  would  at  first  seem ;  the 
former  has  its  roots  in  the  air  and  draws  about  the 
same  elements  thence  that  the  latter  does  through 
its  roots  in  the  earth. 

Is  not  distilled  and  evaporated  water  supposed 
to  be  absolutely  free  from  mineral  elements?  How, 
then,  do  all  these  minerals  get  into  the  air,  if  not 
through  the  vapors  that  rise  from  the  sea  and  the 
land?  It  is  curious,  if  true,  as  is  alleged,  that  stag- 
nant water  anywhere  near  air-plants  seems  to  be 
injurious  to  them.  They  need  the  purest  air. 

Wait  long  enough  and  Nature  will  always  have  a 
fresh  surprise  for  you.  I  have  seen  in  my  life  only 
one  big  maple-tree  utterly  destroyed  and  reduced  to 
kindling-wood  by  a  thunderbolt.  I  have  never  yet 
known  lightning  to  strike  a  beech-tree,  but  prob- 
ably if  I  wait  long  enough  I  shall  see  it  or  hear  of  it. 
I  have  only  once  in  my  life  found  a  plant  called  the 
whorled  pogonia,  and  only  once  found  a  plant  called 
the  devil's-bit,  but  in  time  I  hope  to  find  another  of 
each.  I  have  only  once  seen  a  wild  bird  turning  over 
her  eggs  in  her  nest  as  does  a  hen.  I  have  never  but 

124 


NATURE  IN  LITTLE 

once  seen  the  golden  eagle  soaring  above  my  na- 
tive hills  and  that  was  seventy  years  ago.  No  wild 
animal  of  the  cat  tribe  other  than  the  ordinary  wild- 
cat had  been  seen  or  heard  in  my  native  town  in  the 
Catskills  in  my  time,  till  a  few  years  ago,  when  a 
new  cry  was  heard.  Let  me  tell  about  it. 

One  still,  moonlight  October  night,  as  I  was  sleep- 
ing on  the  porch,  a  bit  of  natural  history  on  four 
legs  which  I  had  never  heard  before,  let  out  such  a 
cry  and  wail,  under  the  hill  within  a  stone's  throw 
below  me,  that  I  was  startled  and  puzzled  beyond 
measure.  I  thought  I  knew  the  natural  history  of  the 
Catskills  pretty  well,  but  here  was  a  cry  absolutely 
new  to  me.  There  was  first  a  loud,  strident,  murder- 
ous scream,  such  as  a  boy  might  utter  when  be- 
side himseK  with  fear  or  pain,  followed  by  a  long, 
tapering  moan  and  wail,  like  the  plaint  of  a  lost  soul. 
It  was  almost  blood-curdling.  Five  times,  with  less 
than  half  a  minute  interval,  the  creature  or  lost 
spirit  rent  the  midnight  silence  with  this  cry,  fol- 
lowed by  the  wail  of  utterly  hopeless  despair.  I 
raised  myself  up  on  my  elbow  and  listened.  Each 
scream  echoed  off  in  the  woods  a  few  hundred  yards 
away,  but  the  moan  faded  away  in  the  moonlight 
and  became  a  mere  wraith  of  sound.  I  could  not  help 
visualizing  it,  and  seeing  it  mount  up  toward  the 
moon  and  become  fairly  blue  and  transparent  in  its 
beams.  I  was  partially  disabled  from  the  kick  of 
a  horse  about  whom  I  had  become  too  coltish  in 

125 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

the  field  the  day  before,  and  could  not  get  up  and 
run  to  the  brink  of  the  hill,  below  which  the  crea- 
ture seemed  to  be.  What  could  it  be? 

The  next  night  it  came  again  at  about  the  same 
hour,  but  I  was  sleeping  too  soundly  to  be  awakened. 
A  young  couple  from  Kansas  were  sleeping  in  the 
chamber  above  me;  they  heard  it  and  were  so 
frightened  that  they  could  sleep  no  more  till  morn- 
ing. The  next  night  we  aU  lay  awake  listening  till 
after  midnight,  but  the  performance  was  not  re- 
peated. 

Not  long  afterward  I  visited  the  Zoological 
Park  at  the  Bronx  and  described  the  sound  I  had 
heard  to  the  director.  "A  puma,"  he  said,  "prob- 
ably one  escaped  from  captivity  and  calling  for 
her  mate."  The  director  had  heard  them  cry  hun- 
dreds of  times  and  he  repeated  the  cry.  "Was 
it  like  that.? "  "Not  a  bit,"  I  said.  "No  human  voice 
could  give  the  scream  I  heard,  or  imitate  the  hope- 
lessness of  that  wail."  The  only  sound  that  I  had 
ever  heard  that  was  at  all  like  the  cry  was  uttered 
by  a  young  man  whom  I  caught  one  night  stealing 
my  grapes.  I  suddenly  rose  up  amid  the  vines, 
draped  in  black,  and  seized  him  by  the  leg  as  he  was 
trying,  half  paralyzed  with  fear,  to  get  over  the  wall. 
He  gave  forth  a  wild,  desperate  animal  scream,  as 
if  he  had  found  himself  in  the  clutches  of  a  veritable 
black  fiend.  Only  the  wild  animal  which  slumbers  in 
each  of  us,  and  which  fear  can  at  times  so  suddenly 

126 


NATURE  IN  LITTLE 

awaken,  was  vocal  in  that  cry.  As  for  the  utterly 
forlorn  and  heart-breaking  crescendo  of  the  mid- 
night wail  I  heard  from  my  sleeping-porch,  I  have 
never  heard  anything  approaching  it  from  man  or 
beast. 

There  were  traditions  in  the  neighborhood  of 
some  such  mysterious  cry  having  been  heard  here 
and  there  for  the  past  seven  or  eight  years,  frighten- 
ing horses  at  night,  causing  them  to  tremble  and 
snort  and  stop  in  the  road,  and  almost  paralyzing 
with  fear  a  young  fellow  and  his  girl  crossing  from 
one  valley  to  another  on  their  way  home  from  a 
country  dance. 

Six  years  ago,  on  a  warm  July  night,  a  woman 
friend  of  mine  and  her  son,  of  sixteen  or  eighteen, 
were  passing  the  night  in  hammocks  in  my  orchard, 
when  near  midnight  they  came  hurrying  to  the 
house  in  a  great  state  of  agitation;  they  had  heard 
a  terrible,  blood-curdling  cry.  I  laughed  at  them  as 
city  tenderfeet,  told  them  they  had  probably  heard 
the  squall  of  a  fox,  or  the  cry  of  an  owl,  or  a  coon. 
They  did  not  care  what  it  was,  but  they  would  not 
return  to  their  hammocks,  or  even  try  to  pass  an- 
other night  there.  They  have  since  told  me  that  the 
fearful  cry  they  heard  was  like  the  one  I  described. 
An  old  woodsman  and  hunter  has  told  me  that 
I  heard  the  cry  of  the  Canada  lynx.  And  he  is  prob- 
ably correct,  though  I  can  find  no  record  in  the 
books  that  the  lynx  has  such  a  cry.  In  the  winter  of 

127 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

1915  a  similar  cry  was  heard  late  at  night  on  the 
hills  above  the  village.  It  set  all  the  dogs  in  town 
barking  and  people  thrust  their  heads  out  of  their 
doors  and  windows  to  see  or  hear  what  had  caused 
the  sudden  rumpus.  The  following  September,  while 
a  young  man  whom  I  know  was  ploughing  in  a  hill 
field  near  the  woods,  a  large,  yellow,  catHke  animal 
came  down  and  lingered  near  him.  His  description 
of  it,  including  the  fact  that  it  had  a  short  tail,  con- 
vinced me.  that  he  had  seen  a  lynx  and  that  this 
was  our  mysterious  night  screamer.  The  young 
farmer  ran  to  the  house  to  get  his  gun,  but  when  he 
returned  he  saw  the  big  cat  disappearing  in  the 
woods.  Yet  no  one  has  seen  its  track  upon  the  snow, 
and  no  poultry  or  lambs  or  pigs  or  calves  in  the 
neighborhood  have  been  killed  by  it. 

One  need  never  expect  to  exhaust  the  natural 
history  of  even  his  own  farm.  Every  year  sees  a 
new  and  enlarged  edition  of  the  book  of  nature,  and 
we  may  never  hope  to  turn  the  final  leaf. 


VIII 

THE  INSECT  MIND 

THE  insect  mind  is  ju^t  as  obvious  as  the  mind 
of  the  four-footed  creatures.  Darwin  thought 
the  most  marvelous  bit  of  matter  in  the  universe 
was  the  brain  of  an  ant.  Fabre's  studies  have  thrown 
more  light  upon  the  workings  of  the  insect  brain 
than  those  of  all  other  investigators,  though  George 
and  Elizabeth  Peckham,  of  Wisconsin,  have  thrown 
the  same  flood  of  light  upon  the  lives  of  our  social 
and  solitary  wasps.  Their  volume  upon  this  subject 
can  go  on  the  same  shelf  with  the  works  of  *'the  in- 
sect's Homer,"  as  Maeterlinck  called  Fabre. 

Fabre  is  rather  the  insect's  Sherlock  Holmes. 
Not  a  secret  of  their  Uves,  seemingly,  escapes  him; 
he  unravels  the  most  intricate  problems  of  their  life- 
histories ;  his  patience  is  tireless,  his  powers  of  obser- 
vation unequaled,  and  his  scientific  method  without 
a  flaw.  So  many  of  the  secrets  of  insect  lives,  espe- 
cially of  the  wasps  and  beetles,  are  underground, 
yet  Fabre  knows  them  all.  He  is  an  eavesdropper,  a 
"Paul  Pry,"  a  skilled  detective;  he  knows  even  the 
hidden  crimes  and  scandals  of  the  insects.  If  he  does 
not  get  the  secret  he  is  after  this  year,  or  the  next, 
he  follows  up  the  clue  five,  six,  or  seven  years,  at 
times  sitting  so  long  by  the  roadside,  or  amid  the 
vines  and  bushes,  —  often  all  day,  —  without  chang- 

129 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

ing  his  place,  that  the  peasants,  as  they  go  to  and 
fro,  from  their  work,  tap  their  heads  significantly 
to  one  another,  and  exclaim,  ''Pecaire  /" 

Fabre  reveals  a  world  at  our  feet  which  we  rarely 
or  never  see,  but  which  is  in  many  ways  a  copy  in 
miniature  of  the  human  world  in  which  we  live  — 
its  arts,  its  economies,  its  thefts,  its  murders,  its 
struggles,  its  competitions,  its  failures,  its  provi- 
dences, its  love  of  home  and  of  offspring,  and  its 
relations  to  time  and  chance.  Of  the  insects  he  says: 

They  become  past-masters  in  a  host  of  industries  for 
the  sake  of  a  family  which  their  faceted  eyes  never  be- 
hold and  which,  nevertheless,  the  maternal  foresight 
knows  quite  well.  One  becomes  a  manufacturer  of  cotton 
goods  and  mills  cotton-wool  bottles;  another  sets  up  as  a 
basket-maker  and  weaves  hampers  out  of  scraps  of  flow- 
ers; a  third  turns  mason  and  builds  rooms  of  cement  and 
domes  of  road-metal;  a  fourth  starts  a  pottery  works,  in 
which  the  clay  is  kneaded  into  shapely  vases  and  jars  and 
bulging  pots;  yet  another  adopts  the  calling  of  a  pitman 
and  digs  mysterious  warm,  moist  passages  underground. 
A  thousand  trades  similar  to  ours  and  often  even  un- 
known to  our  industrial  system  are  employed  in  the  prep- 
aration of  the  abode.  Next  come  the  victuals  of  the  ex- 
pected nurslings:  piles  of  honejs  loaves  of  pollen,  stores 
of  preserved  game,  cunningly  paralyzed.  In  such  works  as 
these,  having  the  future  of  the  family  for  their  exclusive 
object,  the  highest  manifestations  of  the  instinct  are  dis- 
played under  the  impulse  of  maternity. 

Fabre  convinces  himself  and  his  reader  that  the 
insects  do  not  reason,  yet  he  reveals  in  them  some- 

130 


THE  INSECT  MIND 

thing  like  superhuman   knowledge.   We  have  no 
name  for  it  but  instinct,  —  untaught  wisdom,  —  but 
in  some  cases  it  is  so  far  beyond  anything  that  man 
attains  to,  except  after  long  research  and  experi- 
mentation, that  we  marvel  at  it  as  we  would  at  the 
supernatural.    The    knowledge   that   the   hunting 
wasps  possess   that  the  spiders  and  crickets  and 
beetles  which  they  bring  and  store  up  for  their 
young,  as  yet  unhatched,  must  be  paralyzed  but 
not  killed,  —  their   animal   life,  as  Fabre  calls  it, 
destroyed,  but  their  vegetative  life  left  intact,  — 
how  far  it  transcends  anything  we  know  until  we 
call  to  our  aid  all  the  resources  of  experimental 
science ! 

Fabre  shows  us  one  species  of  wasp  striking  un- 
erringly at  the  one  minute  vulnerable  point  in  the 
breastplate  of  its  prey,  a  species  of  beetle.  It  seems 
to  possess  an  anatomist's  knowledge  of  the  struc- 
ture of  its  game,  and  of  the  physiological  function 
of  its  nerve  ganglia.  With  one  species  of  beetle  it 
knows  that  one  thrust  of  the  sting  is  sufficient;  with 
a  species  of  cricket  whose  main  nerve-centres  are 
three  and  are  more  widely  distributed,  it  knows  that 
three  stabs  are  required,  and  it  knows  precisely 
where  to  administer  them.  How  marvelous  it  all  is ! 
The  divinity  that  so  carefully  fitted  a  coat  of  mail 
to  the  beetle  left  one  vulnerable  point,  and  then 
betrayed  the  secret  to  its  deadly  enemy,  the  wasp. 
Fabre  has  seen  the  wasp  seize  the  beetle,  press 

131 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

"her  forefeet  violently  upon  the  beetle's  back,  as 
if  to  force  open  some  ventral  joint,"  then  curve  her 
body  around  under  the  insect's  belly  and  thrust 
her  sting  into  a  minute  opening  between  its  first 
and  second  pair  of  legs ! 

O  strange  and  baffling  Nature!  Truly  thy  ways 
are  not  as  our  ways.  But  Nature  keeps  the  game 
of  life  going,  which  seems  her  main  purpose,  making 
it  as  various  and  picturesque  as  possible.  She  di- 
vides her  favors  pretty  equally,  but  not  quite;  she 
leaves  enough  difference  up  or  down  to  keep  the 
currents  going.  She  is  just  as  much  interested  in  the 
weevil  as  in  the  wasp,  and  though  she  has  armed 
the  wasp  to  slay  the  weevil,  she  has  made  the  weevil 
more  prolific,  and  given  it  life  on  easier  terms.  The 
hunted  usually  has  life  on  easier  terms  than  the 
hunter  —  a  wider  choice  of  food  and  of  territory,  and 
other  compensations.  It  is  rarely  that  a  rat  or  a  chip- 
munk or  a  rabbit  can  escape  the  weasel  when  the 
latter  gets  on  its  trail,  and  yet  there  are  hundreds 
of  rats  and  chipmunks  and  rabbits  to  one  weasel. 
Some  unknown  factor  operates  to  keep  the  latter 
in  check. 

Our  prudence,  our  economy,  our  selection,  our 
short  cuts,  find  no  parallel  in  Nature's  works;  and 
for  the  reason  that  her  special  ends  are  all  inside  of 
general  or  universal  ends:  so  careless  of  the  indi- 
vidual, as  Tennyson  says,  and  so  careful  of  the  type. 
Behold  how  Nature  equips  one  animal  to  prey  upon 

132 


THE  INSECT  MIND 

another,  and  then  equips  that  other  to  escape  its 
enemy.  The  rabbit  has  no  defense  but  its  speed  and 
its  sleepless  eyes,  yet  these  suffice.  The  animals  that 
are  the  prey  of  the  stealthy  cat  tribe  are  almost  pre- 
ternaturally  alert  and  keen  of  eye  and  scent. 
Nature  has  told  them  who  is  shadowing  them. 

The  intelligence  of  Nature  outside  of  man  con- 
sists largely  in  adapting  a  means  to  an  end,  and  the 
end  is  foreshadowed  in  the  organization.  Propose  to 
an  animal  a  new  end,  not  in  line  with  its  instinctive 
activities,  and  it  is  helpless.  This  is  markedly  true 
in  the  insect  world;  their  activities  are  like  the 
activity  of  your  watch,  which  ticks  off  the  hours 
in  orderly  sequence,  but  which  cannot  tick  off  one 
second  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"To  know  everything  and  to  know  nothing," 
says  Fabre,  "according  as  it  acts  under  normal  or 
exceptional  conditions:  that  is  the  strange  antith- 
esis presented  by  the  insect  race,"  and  he  might 
have  added,  "by  nearly  all  the  lower  orders  of 
animal  life."  Inside  the  field  of  their  instinctive 
activities  their  wisdom  is  truly  astonishing;  out- 
side that  field  their  ignorance  and  stupidity  are 
equally  astonishing.  An  animal  must  know  certain 
things  in  order  to  survive  and  perpetuate  itself,  or 
rather  we  should  say,  it  must  perform  certain  acts 
in  order  to  survive  —  whether  or  not  it  knows  what 
it  is  doing,  as  we  know,  is  a  question. 

The  wasp  that  is  such  a  skilled  surgeon  hauls  its 

133 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

prey  to  its  den  by  laying  hold  of  some  appendage  of 
the  head,  as  the  antennse  or  the  palpi.  Remove  these 
after  the  wasp  has  brought  its  game  to  its  door, 
and  the  little  automaton  is  powerless  to  complete 
its  job.  It  could  just  as  easily  haul  its  beetle  in  the 
hole  by  the  leg  or  the  ovipositor,  —  that  is,  back- 
wards, instead  of  head  first,  —  but  this  it  has  never 
done;  it  is  not  so  written  in  the  tablet  of  its  mind; 
the  game  must  go  in  head  foremost.  In  such  a  pre- 
dicament the  wasp  hesitates,  washes  its  face  and 
eyes,  seems  to  reflect  a  moment,  then  tries  to  seize 
the  game  by  the  head,  but  her  mandibles  slip  off 
the  polished  skull,  and  she  finally  abandons  the 
task  as  hopeless  and  goes  away  in  quest  of  a  new 
victim. 

Fabre  interrupted  this  same  species  of  wasp  when 
it  had  stored  its  game  in  its  hole  and  was  stopping 
up  the  entrance  and  preparing  to  leave  it  forever. 
He  opened  the  hole  with  his  penknife  and  removed 
the  beetle  w^hile  the  wasp  stood  looking  on.  When  he 
had  finished,  the  wasp  reentered  her  den,  inspected 
it  carefully,  as  in  the  first  instance,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  close  it  up  as  before,  with  great  care  and 
deliberation.  That  her  game,  and  the  egg  she  had 
laid  upon  it  were  gone,  made  no  difference;  she  must 
follow  out  the  programme,  one  act  must  follow 
another  in  its  proper  order. 

The  wasp  always  explores  her  hole  the  last  thing 
before  hauling  in  her  game,  and  if  you  interrupt  the 

134 


THE  INSECT  MIND 

order  of  her  activities  she  will  do  this  over  and  over; 
she  cannot  omit  one  of  the  links  in  the  fatal  chain 
that  binds  her  deeds  together,  nor  change  their 
order. 

A  wasp,  so  clever  in  all  her  natural  ways,  is  fool- 
ish when  these  ways  are  interfered  with.  She  makes 
a  burrow  in  the  soil  several  inches  long,  the  entrance 
to  which  is  always  hidden  by  the  sliding  down 
of  the  sand  in  which  the  tunnel  is  made.  She 
finds  this  entrance  unerringly  when  Fabre  himself 
cannot  detect  the  slightest  clue  as  to  its  exact 
whereabouts.  But  unless  she  can  enter  this  tunnel 
at  the  regular  door,  she  does  not  know  it  from  any 
other  hole  in  the  ground,  and,  stranger  still,  she 
does  not  know  her  own  grub  asleep  at  the  end  of  it; 
she  runs  over  it  or  pushes  it  about,  looking  for  the 
entrance  that  should  guide  her  to  it.  The  wasp 
knows  her  young  only  as  the  end  of  a  series  of  acts 
that  must  follow  one  another  in  a  regular  order. 
And  then  she  does  not  know  it  in  our  human  sense : 
she  is  a  stranger  in  her  own  house  if  you  admit  her 
through  an  opening  you  have  made  instead  of 
through  the  door  which  she  made. 

The  intelligence  of  the  insect  is  the  intelligence 
of  Nature  —  it  is  action  and  not  reflection.  Nature 
lives  and  grows,  and  does  not  pause  to  cogitate  and 
ask  the  reason  why,  as  we  do.  Her  works  are  a  per- 
petual revelation.  Fabre  can  give  good  and  sufli- 
cient  reasons  for  every  procedure  of  his  insects,  but 

135 


TIELD  AND  STUDY 

he  knows  full  well  that  the  insect  does  the  deed 
without  thought  or  previous  experience. 

The  Sphex  wasp  seems  to  know  that  the  cricket 
upon  which  it  preys  has  three  nerve-centres  that 
control  its  main  movements,  and  hence  requires 
three  stings  in  three  different  parts  of  its  body  to 
produce  complete  paralysis,  while  another  species 
of  wasp,  the  Cerceris,  knows  her  beetle  has  only  one 
nerve-centre,  and  hence  she  stings  it  but  once. 

The  wasp  called  the  Ammophila  sometimes 
pinches  and  bruises  the  brain  of  the  grub  she  has 
stung  and  is  carrying  to  her  nest,  in  order  to  in- 
crease its  torpor,  but  Fabre  says  she  knows  just 
where  to  stop;  she  *' knows  quite  well  that  to  inflict 
a  mortal  wound  on  the  cervical  ganglia  would  mean 
killing  the  caterpillar  then  and  there,  the  very  thing 
to  be  avoided."  Of  course,  the  wasp  knows  nothing 
about  nerve-ganglia  and  their  functions.  This  is  the 
untaught  wisdom  of  her  race,  of  which  she  is  the 
unwitting  instrument.  It  is  an  ancestral  knowledge 
which  Nature  infused  into  her  organism  before  she 
was  born. 

The  Sphex  wasp  needs  at  times  to  paralyze  the 
mouth-parts  of  the  game  she  is  carrying  to  her  den, 
so  that  it  cannot  impede  her  progress  by  seizing 
upon  blades  of  grass  by  the  way,  and  also  that  she 
may  lessen  the  danger  of  the  beetle's  seizing  and 
wounding  her  with  its  mandibles;  and,  like  a  trained 
surgeon,  she  knows  the  precise  spot  in  the  beetle's 

136 


THE  INSECT  MIND 

head  in  which  to  insert  her  sting  to  produce  the 
desired  effect.  Truly  such  science  as  this  cannot  be 
found  outside  the  insect  world. 

Fabre  says  that  bees  have  a  topographical  mem- 
ory that  grasps  the  map  of  the  country,  but  not  the 
beloved  nest,  the  home  itself.  The  bee  will  find  the 
locality  of  its  nest  from  the  verge  of  the  horizon, 
yet  when  the  nest  itself  is  laid  open,  she  does  not 
recognize  it;  she  can  find  the  entrance  door  unerr- 
ingly, and  that  is  enough  for  her.  Exchange  the 
nest  of  the  mason  bee  for  that  of  another  of  the 
same  species,  and  she  does  not  know  the  difference. 
If  the  cell  she  was  working  on  is  half -finished,  and 
you  place  a  completed  one,  filled  with  honey,  in  its 
place,  the  bee  goes  on  with  her  masonry  on  the  filled 
cell  just  the  same;  or,  if  you  reverse  this  process, 
and  put  a  half -finished  cell  in  the  place  of  the  fin- 
ished one,  she  goes  forward  with  her  honey-storing 
in  the  incomplete  cell.  She  cannot  stop  her  masonry, 
or  her  honey-gathering,  till  her  machinery,  wound 
up  for  that  special  purpose,  has  run  down.  In  one 
instance  Fabre  punched  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  a 
cell  the  bee  was  filling,  so  that  the  honey  ran  out  as 
fast  as  she  put  it  in.  The  bee  seemed  a  little  sur- 
prised at  the  behavior  of  the  thing,  hesitated  a  little, 
and  then  went  on  with  her  work,  and  in  due  course 
sealed  up  the  cell,  empty  though  it  was,  as  the  pro- 
gramme demanded. 

Fabre  thinks,  and  apparently  proves,  that  the 

137 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

female  wasp  can  at  will  determine  the  sex  of  her 
egg  at  the  instant  of  laying.  Here  again  we  see  her 
superhuman  knowledge.  She  can  begin  with  eggs 
that  will  produce  males  or  females,  just  as  she 
chooses,  and  since  she  cannot  change  the  order  of 
their  succession  in  her  ovaries,  she  must  determine 
their  sex  by  the  power  of  her  will  at  the  time  of  lay- 
ing. Since  the  females  require  more  space  and  more 
food  than  the  males,  the  mother  must  know  the  sex 
of  the  egg  which  she  is  going  to  lay  while  in  the  act 
of  laying  it. 

The  hive  bee  can  change  the  sex  of  the  egg  — 
turn  a  worker  bee  into  a  queen  bee  —  by  changing 
the  size  and  position  of  the  cell,  and  changing  the 
food  in  quantity  and  in  kind.  Something  like  this 
may  take  place  in  the  case  of  the  wasp  referred  to. 

Insects  of  all  kinds  possess  the  knowledge  and 
skill  that  it  is  necessary  for  them  to  have.  Thus 
"the  leaf -roller  requires  for  her  young  a  leaf  ren- 
dered flexible  ad  hod  half-alive,  paralyzed  in  a 
fashion,  a  leaf  that  can  be  easily  shaped  into  a 
scroll,"  and  she  knows  just  what  to  do  to  attain 
this  end,  as  well  as  the  wasp  knows  how  to  paralyze 
her  cricket  or  spider  —  she  inserts  her  drill  into  the 
petiole  of  the  leaf,  there  and  nowhere  else,  and  thus 
without  much  trouble  she  affects  the  resin  of  the 
aqueduct. 

Different  species  of  insects  at  times  display  the 
most  amazing  ignorance  in  regard  to  their  natural 

138 


THE  INSECT  MIND 

enemies.  None  of  them,  save  our  hive  bee,  seems  to 
know  the  parasites  that  destroy  their  brood;  ap- 
parently they  make  them  welcome  in  their  homes, 
thus  acting  the  part  of  Nature,  who  is  just  as  much 
interested  in  the  success  of  the  parasite  as  in  that 
of  the  host.  The  Halictus  moth  seals  up  the  cell  in 
which  her  brood  has  been  destroyed  as  carefully 
as  she  does  the  others,  when  she  is  only  sealing  up 
emptiness.  The  spider  is  wise  when  all  insects  are 
wise,  and  stupid  when  all  insects  are  stupid.  She 
has  eight  gleaming  eyes,  but  they  do  not  serve  her 
to  tell  her  own  ball  of  eggs  from  that  of  another  of 
different  shape  and  structure.  She  will  accept  a  ball 
of  cork  in  lieu  of  her  own,  embrace  it  lovingly, 
fondle  it  with  her  palpi,  fasten  it  to  her  spinnerets, 
and  drag  it  away.  Between  her  own  ball  and  one  of 
cork  placed  side  by  side  on  the  floor  she  apparently 
has  no  choice,  and  will  take  the  one  she  reaches  first. 
From  amid  four  or  five  cork  balls  she  rarely  selects 
her  own,  but  snaps  up  a  ball  at  random.  A  ball  she 
must  have;  it  is  so  written  in  the  bond;  but  as  to 
which  one,  what  matters  it.^ 

"The  insects,"  Fabre  says,  "have  a  calendar  of 
their  own.  At  a  given  hour  suddenly  they  awaken, 
as  suddenly  afterwards  they  fall  asleep.  The  in- 
genious becomes  incompetent  when  the  prescribed 
hour  is  ended." 


IX 

A  CLEVER  BEASTIE 

1  NEVER  seem  to  tire  of  writing  and  talking 
about  the  chipmunk.  He  is  a  friend  of  my  boy- 
hood. When  I  saw  one  last  winter  down  in  Georgia, 
I  felt  as  if  we  were  exiles  together,  but  he  was  prob- 
ably much  more  at  home  in  that  fenceless  country 
than  I  was. 

The  chipmunk  is  undoubtedly  the  best-beloved 
of  all  our  lesser  rodents,  and  more  persons  probably 
have  friendly  intimacies  with  him  than  with  any 
other  of  our  four-footed  wild  creatures.  He  is  such  a 
pretty  little  animal,  so  bright,  so  alert,  so  clean  and 
well-groomed,  not  a  hair  missing  or  out  of  place; 
and  the  penciled  lines  on  his  back  are  so  distinct  and 
pleasing  —  seven  lines,  two  pairs  of  three  each,  one 
light  and  two  dark,  on  either  side,  with  a  dark  line 
between  them  running  down  the  middle  of  the  back. 
None  other  of  our  little  rodents  has  such  a  pretty 
coat  or  such  pretty  ways,  and  no  other  is  so  harm- 
less about  our  homes  and  farms. 

During  my  youth  in  the  Catskills,  when  there 
were  at  least  ten  chipmunks  where  there  is  only  one 
now,  he  was  usually  pretty  hard  put  to  it  for  food 
in  May  and  early  June,  and  was  at  times  guilty  of 
digging  up  the  newly  planted  corn.  V^en  the  sprouts 

140 


A  CLEVER  BEASTIE 

were  an  inch  or  so  high,  he  would  occasionally  raid 
the  rows  of  corn  near  the  stone  walls.  With  the  de- 
predations of  the  crows  in  the  middle  of  the  field 
and  of  the  chipmunks  along  the  borders,  some  sea- 
sons the  corn  suffered  badly. 

Many  a  time  when  I  was  a  boy  of  ten  or  twelve 
my  father  armed  me  with  an  old  flintlock  musket 
and  sent  me  forth  to  '*  shoot  the  chipmunks  round 
the  corn."  Sometimes  the  old  gun  would  be  loaded 
with  hard  peas  or  small  gravel-stones,  and  at  only 
six  or  seven  yards*  range  the  head  of  the  poor  chip- 
munk peering  from  the  wall  was  pretty  sure  to  re- 
ceive a  fatal  wound.  I  do  not  remember  that  I  then 
had  any  pity  for  him.  In  fact,  I  think  I  rather  en- 
joyed the  sport  of  hunting  him.  That  is  the  boy 
of  it.  Needless  to  say,  I  could  not  do  such  a  thing 
now. 

Last  summer  the  rats  raided  my  garden  and  de- 
stroyed scores  of  the  ears  of  my  Golden  Bantam 
corn.  They  would  climb  up  the  stalks  at  night  and 
strip  off  the  husks  like  raccoons,  and  leave  only  the 
cobs.  I  set  traps  in  their  runways  baited  with  corn, 
and  caught  a  dozen  or  more  of  them;  but  one  after- 
noon, to  my  dismay,  I  found  two  chipmunks  in  the 
traps.  The  mishap  pained  me  so  that  I  took  the 
traps  away  and  let  the  rats  have  full  swing.  The 
chipmunks  had  been  lured  by  the  corn  that  I  had 
scattered  over  the  ground  and  placed  on  and  under 
the  pans  of  the  traps. 

141 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

The  chipmunk  is  a  ground-dweller  and  a  worker 
in  soils,  but  no  tree-dweller  is  more  bright  and  tidy. 
His  tail  is  as  clean  and  perfect  as  if  it  had  never  been 
whisked  in  and  out  of  a  hole  in  the  ground  times 
w^ithout  number.  He  carries  it  so  deftly  and  grace- 
fully when  he  makes  a  dive  for  his  hole  that  appar- 
ently not  a  hair  of  it  ever  comes  in  contact  with  the 
soil.  You  are  not  surprised  to  see  his  face  so  clean, 
because  he  is  washing  it  on  all  occasions.  His  sani- 
tary regulations  in  his  den  also  seem  to  be  wisely 
looked  after.  He  stores  up  nothing  that  would  fer- 
ment or  mildew  —  only  dry-cured  food.  He  will  eat 
the  green  corn  that  you  give  him  and  add  the  dry 
kernels  to  his  winter  stores. 

At  my  summer  home  in  the  Catskills,  called 
Woodchuck  Lodge,  I  cultivate  friendship  with  the 
chipmunks,  but  rather  frown  upon  the  red  squirrels, 
which  are  much  more  aggressive  and  destructive 
about  the  orchards  and  farm  buildings.  Besides, 
they  are  so  impish  and  defiant  that  they  do  not  win 
your  heart  as  do  the  chipmunks. 

The  red  squirrels  and  the  gray  come  and  go,  but 
the  gentle  chipmunk  we  always  have  with  us.  He 
loves  the  open  country,  where  the  stone  fences  give 
him  lines  of  communication.  He  has  a  curious  habit, 
when  he  sees  or  hears  a  wagon  or  car  coming,  of 
suddenly  running  across  the  road  in  front  of  it.  I  can 
offer  no  explanation  of  this  behavior  unless  it  be 
that  the  apparent  hazard  of  such  a  dash  affords  him 

142 


A  CLEVER  BEASTIE 

a  little  excitement  that  he  relishes.  I  find  more  of 
their  dens  along  highways  than  anywhere  else. 

The  chipmunk  is  one  of  the  most  provident  of 
our  wild  creatures.  Neither  the  red  nor  the  gray 
squirrel  regularly  stores  up  a  winter  supply  of  food, 
although  at  times  the  red  seems  to  do  so  in  a  tenta- 
tive, uncertain  kind  of  way,  but  not  with  the  unmis- 
takable provident  purpose  of  the  chipmunk  when 
it  stores  up  food.  You  will  see  both  of  them  in  the 
fall  carrying  nuts  from  the  trees  and  hiding  them 
here  and  there  under  the  leaves  and  grass,  but  it  is 
doubtful  whether  they  ever  seek  them  again  for 
food.  What  they  are  really  doing  is  unwittingly 
planting  oak  and  chestnut  and  hickory  trees. 
Nature  seems  to  utilize  their  love  of  nuts  for  her 
own  purpose,  as  she  does  that  of  the  crows  and 
jays. 

But  the  chipmunk  is  rarely  a  tree-planter.  He  is 
absorbed  in  his  own  economies.  He  has  two  capa- 
cious cheek  pockets  that  are  invaluable  to  him,  and 
those  pockets  have  a  power  that  ordinary  pockets 
do  not  possess  —  the  power  of  deglutition,  and  also 
the  power  to  reverse  the  process.  The  pockets  liter- 
ally swallow  the  grains  and  nuts  and  as  literally  dis- 
gorge them.  An  acorn  or  other  nut  too  large  for  his 
pockets  the  chipmunk  carries  in  his  teeth. 

Early  in  the  season,  or  as  soon  as  he  can  find  any 
ripened  seeds,  the  chipmunk  begins  to  provide  for 
his  winter  needs.  In  my  morning  walks  I  usually 

143 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

take  a  few  handfuls  of  mixed  grain  in  my  pocket  and 
distribute  it  here  and  there  along  the  stone  walls 
near  where  I  know  my  little  friends  have  their  homes. 
They  soon  "catch  on,"  as  the  boys  say,  and  the 
sight  of  me  raises  expectations  among  them.  After  a 
little  time  they  allow  me  to  come  within  a  few  yards 
of  them,  showing  only  an  unusual  eagerness  and 
curiosity.  Then  as  I  move  on  they  quickly  gather 
up  the  wheat  and  corn  and  carry  it  to  their  dens. 

The  recipients  of  my  bounty  seemed  to  excite 
the  jealousy  of  the  chipmunks  that  lived  farther 
away,  or  off  the  line  of  my  walks.  I  had  often  won- 
dered whether  animals  of  the  same  kind  ever  plun- 
dered one  another's  stores.  I  had  believed  that  they 
did  not,  but  last  fall,  under  the  unequal  conditions 
that  I  established  by  my  limited  bounty,  I  discov- 
ered that  they  did.  On  three  occasions  I  saw  chip- 
munks raiding  their  neighbors*  stores.  From  the 
relative  size  of  the  robbed  and  the  robber  in  two 
cases  that  I  observed,  I  got  the  impression  that  the 
male  was  the  robber  in  one  case  and  the  female  in 
the  other. 

For  two  years  a  chipmunk  has  had  a  den  by  the 
roadside  near  the  stone  wall  in  front  of  my  house, 
and  many  a  handful  of  wheat  and  buckwheat  and 
Indian  corn  have  I  placed  upon  the  wall  for  her,  if 
it  is  a  "her."  In  July  she  began  to  make  long  trips 
up  and  down  the  stone  wall,  returning  to  her  den 
with  full  pockets,  so  that  by  mid-October  I  con- 

144 


A  CLEVER  BEASTIE 

eluded  that  with  her  own  harvests  and  the  additions 
from,  my  granary  her  stores  were  considerable. 

One  morning  I  happened  to  see  a  chipmunk, 
larger  and  a  little  lighter-colored  than  my  neighbor 
across  the  way,  come  down  out  of  the  orchard,  cross 
the  road  to  the  wall,  and  quickly  work  his  way 
down  to  her  den,  which  he  boldly  entered.  I  had 
just  seen  the  rightful  owner  go  off  down  the  wall  the 
other  way,  but  in  a  moment  she  came  back  and 
entered  her  hole. 

"Now  there  will  be  trouble,"  I  said  to  myself. 

In  a  few  seconds  there  was  a  yellow  streak  out  of 
the  hole,  and  two  chipmunks  were  spinning  along 
the  wall  at  their  best  speed,  the  larger  one  keeping 
about  a  yard  ahead.  I  could  see  that  the  leader  had 
something  in  one  cheek  pocket.  It  is  curious  that  on 
such  occasions,  among  both  birds  and  animals,  the 
thief,  no  matter  if  he  is  the  larger  and  stronger,  will 
always  flee.  A  guilty  conscience  seems  to  make 
cowards  of  all  creatures,  and  a  sense  of  right  em- 
boldens the  weakest. 

My  plucky  little  neighbor  pursued  the  intruder 
until  I  lost  them  from  sight.  That  she  compelled 
him  to  disgorge  I  can  hardly  believe.  When  she 
returned,  five  or  six  minutes  later,  she  fell  to  eating 
the  kernels  of  green  corn  that  I  had  placed  upon  the 
wall  in  front  of  her  den. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  saw  the  thief  coming 
cautiously  along  the  wall,  as  if  bent  on  making 

145 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

another  raid.  He  paused  every  few  yards  to  see 
whether  the  coast  was  clear.  My  Uttle  unsuspecting 
friend,  enjoying  the  sweet  corn,  was  completely  hid- 
den from  him  behind  a  big  stone  on  the  top  of  the 
wall.  The  robber  came  near  and  slanted  his  course 
down  the  side  of  the  wall  to  the  ground  near  the  hole. 
From  this  point  he  must  have  seen  the  owner  of  the 
den,  for  he  turned  hurriedly  back  up  the  wall  and 
disappeared. 

Some  time  later  I  saw  him  coming  back  along  the 
wall  again.  His  approach  was  very  cautious  and 
hesitating,  just  as  yours  or  mine  would  be  if  we 
were  bent  on  such  an  errand.  He  skulked  along 
the  side  of  the  wall;  he  paused  behind  stones;  he 
peered  toward  the  den  —  every  act  betrayed  guilt 
and  trepidation.  I  had  seen  his  intended  victim  enter 
her  den,  but  he  had  not,  and  I  could  see  that  he  was 
in  a  quandary  as  to  whether  or  not  she  was  at  home. 

As  he  neared  the  den,  he  got  off  the  wall  some 
yards  away,  and  came  cautiously  along  in  the  grass, 
pausing  and  watching.  Finally  he  reached  the  hole, 
and  hesitated  there  for  some  seconds.  Three  times 
he  raised  his  head  and  glanced  round;  then  he  dis- 
appeared. 

"He  is  in,"  I  said,  but  had  barely  said  it  when  out 
shot  the  yellow  streak  again  and  went  coursing  up 
the  stone  fence  as  before.  It  was  nip  and  tuck,  but 
the  robber  kept  ahead.  My  neighbor  was  gone  so 
long  this  time  that  I  began  to  fear  she  had  come  to 

146 


A  CLEVER  BEASTIE 

grief;  but  at  last  she  came  scurrying  back.  Whether 
or  not  her  little  earth  castle  was  ever  assaulted  again 
by  the  brigand  from  the  bush  I  do  not  know. 

On  both  sides  of  my  camp  in  the  orchard,  and  not 
more  than  fifty  feet  apart,  two  chipmunks  had  their 
dens,  and  here  I  chanced  to  see  one  of  them  rifling 
the  stores  of  the  other.  This  time  I  got  the  impres- 
sion from  the  slight  difference  in  size  that  the  robber 
was  a  female,  but  I  am  not  certain.  I  had  fed  both 
of  them  freely,  but  the  female  was  the  tamer  and 
gentler.  She  learned  to  come  into  my  bush  tent  and 
to  pick  up  the  grain  at  my  feet,  and  finally  to  take 
it  from  my  hand.  In  going  home  with  her  ill-gotten 
gains  from  her  neighbor's  stores,  she  did  not  trust 
herself  on  the  ground,  but  took  a  course  through  the 
apple-trees  and  across  the  canvas  roof  of  my  camp, 
and  into  her  den  that  way. 

On  one  occasion  I  saw  a  chipmunk  waylay  her  in 
one  of  the  apple-trees  and  make  a  savage  drive  at 
her,  but  whether  or  not  it  was  the  owner  of  the 
stores  she  was  pilfering,  I  do  not  know.  Chipmunks 
all  look  so  near  alike  that  it  is  not  always  easy  to 
tell  who 's  v^ho  in  that  community. 

In  a  den  that  a  chipmunk  excavated  one  Sep- 
tember in  a  bank  by  the  roadside  I  witnessed  an- 
other case  of  house-breaking.  I  saw  a  chipmunk 
enter  the  hole  when  I  knew  the  owner  was  at  home. 
I  bent  m.y  ear  above  the  ground  for  a  moment  to 
take  in,  if  I  could,  what  was  said.  I  soon  heard  an 

147 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

angry  altercation  there  under  the  sod  —  tones  of 
complaint,  but  not  of  pain.  Presently  a  head  popped 
up,  evidently  urged  from  behind,  but  it  dropped 
back  on  seeing  me  so  near.  Then  it  hastily  appeared 
again,  and  as  I  withdrew  a  few  paces,  the  chipmunk 
shot  out  and  fled. 

This  nest  was  very  artfully  excavated.  Instead  of 
the  pile  of  freshly  dug  earth  that  usually  attracts 
the  eye  where  a  chipmunk  has  recently  been  at 
work,  there  was  only  a  little  curtain  of  earth  on  the 
side  of  the  bank,  strung  along  four  or  five  feet  with 
a  roll  of  grass  and  moss  above  it,  and  fading  off  into 
the  soil  of  the  bank  that  the  road-menders  had  ex- 
posed. Only  the  eye  of  a  passer-by  looking  for  such 
signs  would  have  noticed  it.  It  was  as  if  the  squirrel 
had  had  a  little  tramway  a  few  feet  long  at  the  top 
of  the  bank  imder  the  roll  of  moss  and  turf,  and  had 
dumped  his  newly  dug  earth  from  that  and  let  it 
stream  down  the  bank  until  it  found  the  angle  of 
repose.  The  entrance  was  a  clean-cut  hole  hidden 
in  the  grass  on  the  top  of  the  bank. 

When  one  chipmunk  receives  favors  in  the  way 
of  extra  food,  all  his  neighbors  seem  to  find  it  out, 
and,  I  suspect,  m-ake  an  effort  to  equalize  things  a 
little.  One  season  I  tried  to  find  out  whether  a  chip- 
munk's provident  instinct  would  get  the  better  of 
his  prudence  and  lead  him  to  add  to  his  stores  until 
he  had  no  room  left  in  his  den  for  himself.  I  supplied 
a  greedy  fellow  with  about  a  peck  of  hickory-nuts, 

148 


A  CLEVER  BEASTIE 

chestnuts,  corn,  cherry-pits,  and  peach-pits,  and  I 
saw  him  carry  every  nut  and  kernel  of  grain  into 
his  den. 

How  hurriedly  and  exultantly  he  worked,  as  if 
he  had  feared  that  this  great  windfall  might  be  all 
a  dream,  or  that  his  neighbors  might  want  to  share 
it! 

Well,  I  am  compelled  to  believe  that  his  neighbors 
did  share  it,  but  just  how  and  when  I  do  not  know. 
I  saw  the  nuts  go  into  the  den,  a  plump  peck  of 
them,  and  I  marveled  at  that  den's  capacity.  I  had 
dug  out  two  chipmunks  in  their  winter  retreats, 
and  neither  den  was  large  enough  to  hold  much 
more  than  four  quarts  and  leave  breathing-room  for 
the  occupant  and  space  for  his  nest. 

It  is  true  that  in  excavating  his  retreat  the  chip- 
munk had  brought  to  the  surface  a  bushel  of  earth. 
I  had  measured  it;  but  probably  more  than  half  of 
this  amount  had  come  from  the  three  tunnels  five 
or  six  feet  long  that  led  out  from  the  central  cham- 
ber. The  chipmunk  in  the  Catskills  goes  doT\Ti  just 
below  the  frost  line,  —  in  the  open  fields  a  little  more 
than  three  feet,  —  but  his  tunnels  are  very  crooked. 
If  any  fresh  earth  had  appeared  at  the  surface  I 
should  have  thought  that  my  little  fellow  worked 
nights  enlarging  his  quarters  to  meet  the  sudden 
and  extraordinary  supply  of  food;  but  no  soil  ap- 
peared. 

It  is  certain  that  one  chipmunk  for  once  in  his  life 

149 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

had  his  fill.  At  the  last  he  began  to  hesitate,  and  to 
hide  some  of  the  hickory-nuts  here  and  there  in  the 
grass.  I  was  tempted  to  dig  into  his  chamber  at 
once,  but  it  seemed  such  a  pity  to  bring  rack  and 
ruin  on  his  house  just  on  the  threshold  of  winter 
that  I  deferred  my  investigation  until  spring.  Then 
I  breached  his  walls,  and  to  my  amazement  I  found 
the  usual  small  vault  such  as  I  had  found  before, 
and  only  a  few  empty  shells  of  hickory-nuts  and 
chestnuts  —  not  a  double  handful  in  all.  It  seemed 
as  if  my  fall  observations  must  have  been  a  midday 
dream.  It  was  all  incredible. 

The  owner  was  not  at  home  when  I  forced  his 
dwelling,  but  he  had  evidently  passed  the  winter 
there.  But  where  did  he  store  all  those  nuts  and 
what  had  become  of  them.^^  His  neighbors  must 
have  decided  to  share  them  with  him. 

A  couple  of  feet  from  the  old  entrance  I  found  a 
new  one.  In  all  cases  of  dens  that  I  have  had  under 
observation  during  the  fall,  I  have  noticed  that 
new  entrance  the  next  spring.  They  are  all  made 
from  beneath.  What  becomes  of  the  soil  that  the 
chipmunk  must  remove  in  making  the  new  hole  is 
one  of  the  mysteries  I  have  not  yet  cleared  up. 
There  is  no  sign  of  it  at  the  surface. 

The  other  question  that  long  puzzled  me  ■ —  the 
holes  that  had  no  pile  of  earth,  old  or  new  —  I 
think  I  have  solved:  they  are  the  entrances  to  old 
dens  that  have  had  their  pile  of  fresh  earth  near  by, 

150 


A  CLEVER  BEASTIE 

which  time  and  the  elements  have  obliterated.  But 
what  has  become  of  the  excavated  earth  of  the  new 
spring  entrances,  which  in  some  cases  must  be  from 
a  tunnel  eight  or  ten  feet  long,  is  still  a  mystery. 

If  my  reader  can  surprise  a  chipmunk  digging  his 
hole,  as  I  did  last  September,  he  will  be  very  lucky. 
No  doubt  he  has  found  along  the  road  or  on  the 
borders  of  the  woods  a  fresh  pile  of  earth,  usually 
about  a  bushel  of  it,  with  a  clean-cut  hole  down 
through  the  turf  near  it,  and  with  not  a  grain  of  soil, 
or  any  sign  of  a  path  between  the  pile  of  earth  and 
the  hole.  If  he  investigated,  he  may,  in  some  cases, 
have  found  in  the  pile  of  soil  one  or  more  earth- 
stained  stones  that  he  could  not  put  back  into  the 
hole  out  of  which  they  appeared  to  have  come. 
There  is  no  deception  or  sleight-of-hand  about  it  — • 
those  stones  actually  came  out  of  the  ground  with 
that  pile  of  earth.  But  the  hole  out  of  which  they 
came  is  plugged  up  and  covered  up  by  the  pile  of 
earth  and  is  no  longer  used.  They  did  not  come  out 
of  the  obscure  hole  which  is  now  the  only  entrance 
to  the  den. 


X 

PHASES  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE 

NO  doubt  there  are  tides  in  the  affairs  of  our 
wild  neighbors  no  less  than  in  the  affairs  of 
men  —  vicissitudes  of  fortune  that  affect  not  merely 
individuals,  but  whole  tribes  and  races.  I  noticed 
the  past  season  in  widely  different  parts  of  the 
country  that  the  goldfinches  did  not  breed  as  freely 
as  they  usually  do.  Not  one  nest  could  I  find  in  the 
orchards  or  bushy  fields  of  the  home  farm,  where, 
the  season  before,  I  had  found  half  a  dozen.  What 
was  the  matter?  The  old  birds  were  there,  and  the 
thistles  bloomed  as  usual,  but  no  nests  could  be 
found,  and  only  two  or  three  young  birds  were  seen 
in  August  and  September,  where  I  used  to  see  and 
hear  scores  of  them.  What  caused  the  ebb  in  the  tide 
of  goldfinch  life?  Some  other  season  may  bring  the 
flood,  as  it  has  in  the  case  of  our  pretty  little  rodent 
the  chipmunk.  For  twenty  years  or  more  the  chip- 
munks have  been  slowly  disappearing  from  all 
parts  of  the  country  with  which  I  am  familiar; 
hardly  one  of  late  years  where  there  used  to  be  ten 
when  I  was  a  boy.  But  suddenly  last  year  they  be- 
gan to  be  noticeable,  and  the  present  season  they 
are  here  in  something  like  their  old-time  numbers.  I 
hear  of  them  from  different  parts  of  the  State  —  the 

153 


PHASES  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE 

result  of  migration,  I  was  at  first  inclined  to  think, 
till  John  Lewis  Childs  told  me  they  had  become 
suddenly  numerous  on  Long  Island.  This  fact  seems 
to  exclude  the  idea  of  migration  from  some  other 
part  of  the  country.  Some  parasite,  some  plague  — 
chipmunk  smallpox,  or  cholera  —  may  have  kept 
their  numbers  dowm  for  years,  when  suddenly  the 
enemy  vanishes  and  the  race  recovers  its  lost 
ground. 

These  vicissitudes,  these  ebbs  and  flows,  probably 
run  all  through  the  life  of  nature  about  us  and  we 
observe  them  not.  I  know  an  ash-tree  by  the  road- 
side that  year  after  year,  early  in  the  season,  lost 
part  of  its  foliage  by  some  form  of  leaf-blight.  Surely, 
I  thought,  that  tree  is  doomed;  then  there  came  a 
season  when  the  blight  did  not  appear,  and  it  has 
not  appeared  since.  A  few  years  ago  the  elm-beetle 
threatened  to  destroy  all  our  elms  here  on  the  Hud- 
son; then  it  met  with  a  check  and  seems  now  to  have 
gone  out  entirely.  A  species  of  forest- worm  denuded 
the  sugar  maples  in  large  sections  of  Delaware 
County,  and  spread  like  fire  from  one  wood  to 
another,  and  grew  more  and  more  devastating;  then 
a  parasite,  a  species  of  ichneumon-fly,  took  a  hand 
in  the  game,  and  in  one  season  the  tide  ebbed  and 
has  never  returned. 

A  year  or  two  later  another  species  of  forest- worm 
appeared  in  the  same  section  of  the  country  and 
stripped  the  beeches;  in  midsummer  the  woods  were 

153 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

full  of  white  moths  for  two  seasons;  then  something 
happened  and  these  worms  have  not  returned. 

Occasionally  a  favorable  combination  of  weather 
and  seasonal  conditions  fills  some  parts  of  the  coun- 
try with  a  plague  of  grasshoppers,  and  the  farmers 
tremble  for  their  next  season's  crops,  but  the  next 
season  may  prove  quite  grasshopperless. 

The  tide  in  the  affairs  of  some  of  our  fruit  and 
tree  pests,  such  as  the  gypsy  and  brown-tailed 
moths  and  the  San  Jose  scale,  seems  yet  at  its  full, 
but  no  doubt  the  ebb  will  come  before  the  case  is 
hopeless. 

Ebb  and  flow,  ebb  and  flow,  everywhere  in  the 
life  of  nature.  When  I  lived  upon  the  Potomac  forty 
years  ago,  the  grass  bunting,  or  dickcissel,  was  a 
common  bird  in  the  fields.  Some  years  later  these 
birds  began  slowly  to  disappear,  and  now  that  part 
of  the  country  is  said  to  be  destitute  of  them,  while 
they  are  common  farther  south  in  Kentucky  and 
Tennessee.  What  caused  the  disappearance  or  mi- 
gration of  these  birds,  who  knows? 

Of  late  years  the  prairie  horned  lark  has  appeared 
upon  my  native  hills  in  the  Catskills,  where,  in  my 
youth,  they  were  never  seen.  Such  game-birds  as 
the  quail  ebb  and  flow  in  New  York  and  New  Eng- 
land, according  as  the  winters  are  mild  or  severe. 
Not  many  years  ago  a  series  of  mild  winters  gave 
the  quail  a  great  lift  in  the  Hudson  River  Valley, 
where  I  five.  The  call  of  Bob  White  lent  a  new  charm 

154 


PHASES  OF  ANEMAL  LIFE 

to  the  spring  fields.  Then  came  two  or  three  very  se- 
vere winters  and  the  cheery  call  of  the  quail  is  heard 
in  our  fields  no  more.  The  same  severe  winters  cut 
off  the  race  of  'possums,  which  had  multiplied  in  our 
country  till  they  were  as  common  as  rabbits.  A  few 
years  ago  there  was  a  fearful  ebb  in  the  life  of  the 
ruffed  grouse,  all  over  the  country  from  Maine  to 
Minnesota.  More  than  fifty  per  cent  of  the  birds 
vanished  in  a  single  season.  The  cause  of  it  has  not 
yet  been  cleared  up.  Now  the  birds  are  slowly  re- 
appearing. 

The  natural  balance  of  life  in  any  field  cannot 
long  be  disturbed.  Though  Nature  at  times  seems 
to  permit  excesses,  yet  she  sooner  or  later  corrects 
them  and  restores  the  balance.  The  life  of  the 
globe  could  never  have  attained  its  present  develop- 
ment on  any  other  plane.  A  certain  peace  and  har- 
mony have  come  out  of  the  perpetual  struggle  and 
warfare  of  opposing  tendencies  and  forces. 

The  waters  of  the  globe  all  tend  to  seek  the  same 
level,  but  this  equilibrium  is  constantly  broken  by 
the  solar  forces,  so  that  the  currents  flow  perpetu- 
ally. When  one  force  pulls  down,  another  force 
builds  up. 

The  weasel  is  the  most  fierce  and  bloodthirsty  of 
all  our  smaller  mammals;  mice  and  rats,  squirrels 
and  rabbits,  and  birds  vanish  before  him,  yet  he 
does  not  overrun  our  fields  and  woods;  he  is  quite 
a  rare  beast;  some  unknown  enemy  or  condition 

155 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

keeps  him  in  check.  The  defenseless  rabbit,  upon 
which  so  many  creatures  prey,  easily  holds  its  own 
because  it  is  so  very  prolific.  It  also  has  another 
advantage;  it  can  and  does  sleep  with  its  eyes  open. 
The  flying  squirrel  would  seem  to  have  a  great 
advantage  over  the  chipmunk,  yet  it  is  far  less 
numerous  in  our  woods;  it  pays  for  its  wings  in  some 
way;  it  is  probably  less  handy  and  resourceful. 
Few  animals  will  molest  the  skunk,  yet  the  world 
is  not  filled  with  skunks;  where  they  are  found  side 
by  side,  the  woodchuck,  which  has  many  more  nat- 
ural enemies,  is  far  more  abundant,  not  because  it 
is  more  prolific,  which  does  not  seem  to  be  the  case, 
but  because,  among  other  things,  its  food-supply  is 
simpler  and  more  universal.  The  limitation  of  the 
natural  food-supply  is,  of  course,  the  great  factor 
in  the  limitation  of  animal  life  everywhere.  If  our 
spring  is  late  and  cold,  the  robins  nest  later,  and 
have  smaller  broods  than  during  a  warm,  early 
spring. 

The  gray  squirrel  is  far  less  numerous  in  my 
locality  than  the  red  because,  in  my  opinion,  he  is 
far  less  resourceful;  he  is  not  the  same  miscella- 
neous feeder,  and  hence  is  much  more  restricted 
in  his  range.  The  red  squirrel,  when  hard  put  to  it, 
will  come  to  your  very  door  and  chip  up  green  ap- 
ples and  pears  for  the  meagre  supply  of  seed  in 
them.  In  May  and  June,  when  other  supplies  fail, 
he  helps  himself  out  with  birds'  eggs  and  with  young 

156 


PHASES  OF  ANIIVIAL  LIFE 

birds,  and  in  the  colder  seasons  he  raids  the  gran- 
aries of  the  wild  mice  and  the  dens  of  the  chip- 
munks. He  is  a  hustler  and  a  freebooter  at  all  times. 
His  natural  enemies  are  black  snakes,  weasels, 
hawks,  owls,  and  cats,  yet  his  tribe  seems  to  be 
increasing. 

Man,  of  course,  disturbs  the  balance  of  Nature 
wherever  he  goes.  Some  forms  of  life  disappear 
before  him,  while  others  thrive  and  increase  in  his 
footsteps.  He  adds  greatly  to  the  food-supply  of 
some  species,  while  he  cuts  off  that  of  others.  Most 
of  the  field  animals  partake  of  his  bounty,  but  the 
forest  animals  vanish  before  him.  That  any  species 
has  actually  become  extinct  through  his  instru- 
mentality, unless  it  be  that  of  the  passenger  pigeon, 
may  well  be  doubted,  though  he  hastened  the  extinc- 
tion of  the  great  auk,  and,  maybe,  the  Labrador 
duck.  The  buffalo  would  have  become  extinct  under 
his  ruthless  slaughter,  had  he  not  stayed  his  hand 
in  time.  Whole  tribes  and  races  of  animals,  some  of 
them  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made,  became  ex- 
tinct in  geologic  time,  long  before  man  could  have 
played  any  part  in  hastening  their  doom.  A  change 
in  their  environment,  through  slow  crustal  move- 
ments of  the  earth,  or  through  change  of  climate 
that  affected  their  food-supply,  probably  rendered 
them  unfit  to  survive. 


XI 

EACH  AFTER  ITS  KIND 

HOW  sharply  most  forms  of  life  are  differenti- 
ated! The  die  that  stamps  each  of  them  is 
deeply  and  clearly  cut.  As  I  sit  here  in  my  bush 
camp  under  the  apple-trees,  I  see  a  chipmunk  spin- 
ning up  the  stone  wall  a  few  yards  away.  His  alert 
eye  spies  me,  and  he  pauses,  sits  up  a  few  moments, 
washes  his  face  with  that  hurried  movement  of  his 
paws  over  it,  then  hesitates,  turns,  and  goes  spin- 
ning back  down  the  stone  fence.  He  seems  to  sniff 
danger  in  me.  He  is  living  his  life,  he  has  a  distinct 
sphere  of  activity;  in  this  broad,  rolling  landscape 
he  is  a  little  jet  of  vital  energy  that  has  a  character 
and  a  purpose  of  its  own;  it  is  unlike  any  other.  How 
unlike  the  woodchuck  in  the  next  field,  creeping 
about  the  meadow,  storing  up  his  winter  fuel  as  fat 
in  his  own  flabby  body,  or  the  woodpecker  on  the 
apple-tree,  or  the  noisy  crow  flying  by  overhead! 
Each  is  a  manifestation  of  the  psychic  principle  in 
organic  nature,  but  each  is  an  individual  expression 
of  it.  The  chemistry  and  the  physics  of  their  lives 
are  the  same,  but  how  different  the  impressions 
they  severally  make  upon  us !  Life  is  infinitely  vari- 
ous in  its  forms  and  activities,  though  living  things 
all  be  made  of  one  stuff. 

158 


EACH  AFTER  ITS  KIND 

Soon  after  the  chipmunk  there  appears  a  red 
squirrel  going  down  the  wall  —  half-brother  to  the 
chipmunk  but  keyed  to  a  much  higher  degree  of 
intensity.  He  moves  in  spasms  and  sallies  and  is 
frisky  and  impish,  where  the  chipmunk  is  sedate 
and  timid.  His  arboreal  life  requires  different  qual- 
ities and  powers;  he  rushes  through  the  tree-tops 
like  a  rocket;  he  travels  on  bridges  of  air ;  he  is  nearly 
as  much  at  home  amid  the  branches  as  are  the  birds, 
much  more  so  than  is  the  flying  squirrel,  which  has 
but  one  trick,  while  the  red  squirrel  has  a  dozen. 
That  facile  tail,  now  a  cockade,  now  a  shield,  now  an 
air-buoy;  that  mocking  dance,  those  derisive  snick- 
ers and  explosions;  those  electric  spurts  and  dashes 
—  what  a  character  he  is  —  the  very  Puck  of  the 
woods ! 

Yesterday  a  gray  squirrel  came  down  the  wall 
from  the  mountain  —  a  long,  softly  undulating  line 
of  silver-gray;  unhurried,  alert,  but  not  nervous, 
pausing  now  and  then,  but  striking  no  attitudes; 
silent  as  a  shadow  and  graceful  as  a  wave  —  the 
very  spirit  of  the  tall,  lichen-covered  birches  and 
beeches  of  the  mountain-side.  When  food  is  scarce 
in  the  woods  he  comes  to  the  orchards  and  fields  for 
insects  and  wild  fruit,  and  any  chance  bit  of  food 
he  can  pick  up.  What  a  contrast  he  makes  to  the 
pampered  town  squirrel,  gross  in  form  and  heavy 
in  movement !  The  town  squirrel  is  the  real  rustic, 
while  the  denizen  of  the  woods  has  the  grace  and 

159 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

refinement.  Domestication,  or  semi-domestication, 
coarsens  and  vulgarizes  the  wild  creatures;  only  in 
the  freedom  of  their  native  haunts  do  they  keep 
the  beauty  and  delicacy  of  form  and  color  that 
belong  to  them. 

A  nuthatch  comes  upon  the  apple-tree  in  front  of 
me,  uttering  now  and  then  his  soft  nasal  call,  and 
runs  up  and  down  and  round  the  trunk  and 
branches,  his  boat-shaped  body  navigating  the 
rough  surfaces  and  barely  touching  them.  Every 
moment  or  two  he  stops  and  turns  his  head  straight 
out  from  the  tree  as  if  he  had  an  extra  joint  in  his 
neck.  Is  he  on  the  lookout  for  danger  .^^  He  pecks  a 
little  now  and  then,  but  most  of  the  food  he  is  in 
quest  of  seems  on  the  surface  and  is  very  minute. 
A  downy  woodpecker  comes  upon  the  same  tree. 
His  movements  are  not  so  free  as  those  of  the  nut- 
hatch. He  does  not  go  head  foremost  down  the  tree; 
his  head  is  always  pointed  upward.  He  braces  and 
steadies  himself  with  his  tail,  which  has  stiif  spines 
at  the  ends  of  the  quills.  By  a  curious  gymnastic 
feat  he  drops  down  the  trunk  inch  by  inch,  loosing 
his  hold  for  a  moment  and  instantly  recovering  it. 
He  cannot  point  his  beak  out  at  right  angles  to  the 
tree  as  can  the  nuthatch.  In  fact,  he  is  not  a  tree- 
creeper,  but  a  wood-pecker,  and  can  penetrate  fairly 
hard  wood  with  his  beak.  His  voice  has  a  harsh, 
metallic  ring  compared  with  that  of  the  soft,  child- 
like call  of  the  nuthatch.  His  only  contribution  to 

160 


EACH  AFTER  ITS  KIND 

the  music  of  the  spring  is  his  dry-Hmb  drum  with 
which  he  seeks  to  attract  his  mate  when  the  love 
passion  is  upon  him. 

Oh,  these  wild  creatures!  How  clear-cut,  how 
individual,  how  definite  they  are!  While  every 
individual  of  a  species  seems  stamped  with  the 
same  die,  the  species  themselves,  even  in  closely 
allied  groups,  are  as  distinct  and  various  in  their 
lineaments  and  characteristics  as  we  can  well 
conceive.  Behold  the  order  of  rodents,  including 
the  squirrels,  the  hares,  the  rabbits,  the  wood- 
chucks,  the  prairie-dogs,  the  rats  and  mice,  the 
porcupines,  the  beavers  —  what  diversity  amid  the 
unity,  what  unlikeness  amid  the  sameness !  It  makes 
one  marvel  anew  at  the  ingenuity  and  inventive- 
ness of  Nature  —  some  living  above  ground,  some 
below,  some  depending  upon  fleetness  of  foot  and 
keenness  of  eye  for  safety,  some  upon  dens  and 
burrows  always  near  at  hand;  the  porcupine  upon 
an  armor  of  barbed  quills,  the  beaver  upon  his 
dam  and  his  sharpness  of  sense.  If  they  all  de- 
scended from  the  same  original  type-form,  how 
that  form  has  branched  like  a  tree  in  the  fields  — 
dividing  and  dividing  and  dividing  again!  But  the 
likeness  to  the  tree  fails  when  we  consider  that  no 
two  branches  are  alike;  in  fact,  that  they  are  as 
unlike  as  pears  and  peaches  and  apples  and  berries 
and  cherries  would  be  on  the  same  tree  —  all  of  the 
same  family,  but  diverging  widely  in  the  species. 

161 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

The  ground-dwellers,  such  as  woodchucks  and 
prairie-dogs  and  gophers,  have  many  similar  habits, 
as  have  the  tree-dwellers  and  the  hares  and  rabbits. 
That  any  of  these  rodent  groups  will  branch  again 
and  develop  a  new  species  is  in  harmony  with  the 
doctrine  of  evolution.  But  these  evolutionary  proc- 
esses are  so  slow  that  probably  the  whole  span  of 
human  history  would  be  inadequate  to  measure  one 
of  them. 

Nearly  all  the  animal  forms  that  we  know  are 
specialized  forms,  like  our  tools  and  implements  — 
shaped  for  some  particular  line  of  activity.  Man  is 
the  most  generalized  of  animals;  his  organization 
opens  to  him  many  fields  of  activity.  The  wood- 
pecker must  peck  for  his  food,  the  kingfisher  must 
dive,  the  flycatcher  must  swoop,  the  hawk  must 
strike,  the  squirrel  must  gnaw,  the  cat  must  spring, 
the  woodcock  must  probe,  the  barnyard  fowls  must 
scratch,  and  so  on,  but  man  is  not  thus  limited.  His 
hands  are  tools  that  can  be  turned  to  a  thousand 
uses.  They  are  for  love  or  war,  to  caress  or  to  smite, 
to  climb  or  to  swim,  to  hurl  or  to  seize,  to  delve  or 
to  build. 

The  organization  of  most  animals  has  special 
reference  to  their  mode  of  getting  a  living.  That  is 
the  dominant  need,  and  stamps  itself  upon  every 
organism. 

Man  is  a  miscellaneous  feeder  and  a  world-wide 
traveler,  hence  all  cHmes  and  conditions  are  his. 

162 


EACH  AFTER  ITS  KIND 

He  is  at  home  in  the  arctics  or  the  tropics,  on  the 
sea,  on  the  land,  and  in  the  air;  a  fruit-eater,  a 
grain-eater,  a  flesh-eater,  a  nut-eater,  an  herb- 
eater;  his  generaUzed  anatomy  and  his  diversified 
mentaUty  make  the  whole  earth  his  dwelling-place, 
and  all  its  thousands  of  treasure-houses  are  made 
available  for  his  needs. 

What  diversity  in  unity  among  the  hawks !  Con- 
trast these  two  familiar  species  which  are  nearly  of 
a  size — the  marsh  hawk  and  the  hen,  or  red-tailed, 
hawk.  The  marsh  hawk  has  the  longer  tail,  and 
the  back  of  the  male  is  bluish-gray.  We  see  it  in 
summer  beating  up  and  down,  low  over  the  fields 
and  meadows,  its  attention  fixed  upon  the  ground 
beneath  it.  At  the  same  time  we  may  see  the  hen- 
hawk  soaring  aloft,  sweeping  leisurely  around  in 
great  circles,  or  climbing  higher  in  easy  spirals,  ap- 
parently abandoning  itself  to  the  joy  of  its  aerial 
freedom.  The  hen-hawk  is  a  bird  of  leisure  in  con- 
trast with  its  brother  of  the  marshes.  We  rarely  see 
it  hunting;  it  is  either  describing  its  great  circles 
against  the  sky,  apparently  in  the  same  mood  that 
the  skater  is  in  who  cuts  his  circles  and  figures  upon 
the  ice;  or  else  it  sits  perched  like  a  statue  high  up 
on  some  dead  branch  in  the  edge  of  the  forest,  or 
on  some  tree  by  the  roadside,  and  sees  the  sum- 
mer hours  go  by.  Solitude,  contemplation,  a  sense 
of  freedom,  seem  to  be  its  chief  delight,  while  we 
rarely  see  the  marsh  hawk  except  when  it  is  intent 

163 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

upon  its  game.  It  haunts  the  fields  and  meadows 
over  a  mde  area  hke  a  spirit,  up  and  down  and 
around  and  across  it  goes,  only  a  few  feet  above  the 
ground,  eyeing  sharply  every  yard  of  surface  be- 
neath it,  now  and  then  dropping  down  into  the 
grass,  never  swooping  or  striking  savagely,  but 
halting  and  alighting  rather  deliberately,  evidently 
not  in  pursuit  of  a  bird,  but  probably  attracted 
by  field  mice.  The  eye  follows  its  course  with  pleas- 
ure; such  industry,  such  ease  of  movement,  such 
deliberation,  such  a  tireless  quest  over  the  summer 
fields  —  all  contribute  to  make  a  picture  which  we 
look  upon  with  interest.  It  is  usually  the  female 
which  we  see  on  such  occasions;  she  is  larger  and 
darker  in  color  than  the  male,  and  apparently  upon 
her  falls  the  main  support  of  the  family.  Said  family 
is  usually  composed  of  three  or  four  young  in  a  nest 
upon  the  ground  in  a  marsh,  where  it  is  not  easy  for 
the  pedestrian  to  reach.  The  hunting  habits  of  the 
hen-hawk  are  quite  different.  It  subsists  largely,  not 
upon  hens  or  poultry  as  its  name  would  seem  to  in- 
dicate, but  upon  field  mice  and  other  small  rodents, 
which  it  sw^oops  down  upon  from  a  point  in  the  air 
above  them,  where  it  hovers  a  moment  on  beating 
wing,  or  from  the  top  of  some  old  stub  or  dry  branch 
in  the  meadow.  Its  nest  is  usually  placed  fifty  or 
more  feet  from  the  ground  in  some  large  forest  tree, 
and  is  made  of  dry  twigs  and  branches.  I  have 
found  but  one  marsh  hawk's  nest,  and  not  more 


EACH  AFTER  ITS  KIND 

than  once  in  twenty  years  do  I  find  the  nest  of  a 
hen-hawk. 

Two  species  of  our  smaller  hawks  present  about 
as  sharp  a  contrast  as  do  the  two  I  have  just  de- 
scribed —  the  sparrow  hawk  and  the  pigeon  hawk. 
It  is  very  doubtful  if  the  sparrow  hawk  ever  kills 
sparrows,  its  food  being  largely  insects,  though  the 
pigeon  hawk  is  not  above  killing  pigeons  —  at  least 
of  pursuing  them  with  murderous  intent.  It  is  the 
terror  of  the  smaller  birds,  capturing  robins,  high- 
holes,  bluebirds,  thrushes,  and  almost  any  other 
it  can  get  its  claws  upon.  If  you  see  a  small  bird 
hotly  pursued  by  a  brown  hawk,  the  chances  are 
that  it  is  the  song  or  field  sparrow  making  desperate 
efforts  to  reach  the  cover  of  some  bush  or  tree.  On 
such  occasions  I  have  seen  the  pursued  bird  take 
refuge  in  a  thorn-bush  the  branches  of  which  had 
been  cropped  by  the  cattle  till  they  were  so  thick 
and  thorny  that  you  could  hardly  insert  your  hand 
among  them.  In  such  cases  the  hawk  is,  of  course, 
defeated,  but  he  will  beat  about  the  bush  spitefully 
in  his  vain  attempts  to  dislodge  his  game. 

The  sparrow  hawk  is  the  prettiest  of  our  hawks, 
and  probably  the  most  innocent.  One  midsummer 
when  I  was  a  boy  on  the  old  farm  we  had  a  sudden 
visitation  of  sparrow  hawks;  there  must  have  been 
at  least  fifty  about  the  old  meadow  at  one  time, 
alighting  upon  the  fence-stakes  or  hovering  on  the 
wing  above  the  grass  and  swooping  down  upon  the 

165 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

big,  fat  grasshoppers.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  and  un- 
usual, as  I  have  witnessed  it  only  once  in  my  life. 

Our  birds  often  differ  in  their  habits  much  more 
than  in  their  forms  and  colors.  We  have  two  fly- 
catchers singularly  alike  in  general  appearance  — 
namely,  the  phoebe-bird  and  the  wood  pewee  — 
which  differ  widely  in  their  habits  of  life.  The  phoebe 
is  the  better  known  because  she  haunts  our  porches 
and  sheds  and  bridges,  and  not  infrequently  makes 
herself  a  nuisance  from  the  vermin  with  which  her 
nest,  especially  her  midsummer  nest,  often  swarms. 
She  is  an  early-spring  bird,  and  her  late  March  or 
early  April  call,  repeating  over  and  over  the  name 
by  which  she  is  known,  is  a  sound  that  every  coun- 
try boy  delights  in.  The  wood  pewee  is  a  little  less 
in  size,  but  in  form  and  color  and  manners  is  almost 
the  duplicate  of  phoebe.  She  is  a  much  later  arrival, 
and  need  not  be  looked  for  till  the  trees  begin  to 
turn  over  their  new  leaves.  Then  you  may  hear  her 
tender,  plaintive  cry  amid  the  forest  branches  — 
also  a  repetition  of  her  own  name,  but  with  a  sylvan 
cadence  and  tenderness  peculiarly  its  own.  It  differs 
from  the  phoebe's  note  just  as  the  leafy  solitudes  of 
the  woods  differ  from  the  strong,  open  light  and  the 
fence-stakes  and  ridge-boards  where  the  phoebe 
loves  to  perch.  It  is  the  voice  or  cry  of  a  lonely, 
yearning  spirit,  attuned  to  great  sweetness  and 
tenderness.  The  phoebe  has  not  arrested  the  atten- 
tion of  any  of  our  poets,  but  the  pewee  has  inspired 

166 


EACH  AFTER  ITS  KIND 

at  least  one  fine  woodsy  poem.  I  refer  to  Trow- 
bridge's "Pewee." 

The  nesting-habits  of  the  two  birds  differ  as 
widely  as  do  their  songs.  The  phoebe  is  an  architect 
who  works  with  mud  and  moss,  using  the  latter  in 
a  truly  artistic  way,  except  when  she  is  tempted,  as 
she  so  often  is,  to  desert  the  shelving  rocks  by  the 
waterfalls,  or  along  the  brows  of  the  wooded  slopes, 
for  the  painted  porches  of  our  houses  or  the  sawed 
timbers  of  our  outbuildings,  where  her  moss  is  in- 
congruous and  gives  away  the  secret  she  so  care- 
fully seeks  to  guard.  You  cannot  by  any  sleight-of- 
hand,  or  of  beak,  use  moss  on  a  mud  nest  so  as  to 
blend  it  with  a  porch  or  timber  background.  But 
in  the  niches  of  the  mossy  and  lichen-covered  over- 
hanging rocks  of  the  gorges  and  mountain-sides, 
where  her  forbears  practiced  the  art  of  nest-build- 
ing, and  where  she  still  often  sets  up  her  "procre- 
ant  cradle,"  what  in  the  shape  of  a  nest  can  be 
more  pleasing  and  exquisite  than  her  moss-covered 
structure?  It  is  entirely  fit.  It  is  Nature's  own  handi- 
work, and  thoroughly  in  the  spirit  of  the  shelving 
rocks. 

The  pewee  uses  no  mud  and  no  moss.  She  uses 
lichens  and  other  wild,  woodsy  things,  and  her  nest 
is  one  of  the  most  trim  and  artistic  of  wild-bu-d 
structures;  it  is  as  finished  and  symmetrical  as  an 
acorn-cup.  It  is  cup-shaped,  and  sits  upon  a  hori- 
zontal branch  of  beech  or  maple  as  if  it  were  a  grown 

167 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

part  of  the  tree  —  not  one  loose  end  or  superfluous 
stroke  about  it. 

Two  other  species  of  our  flycatchers,  the  kingbird 
and  the  great  crested,  differ  in  form  and  coloration 
as  much  as  they  do  in  life-habits  —  the  kingbird 
being  rather  sho^^ly  clad  in  black,  gray,  and  white, 
with  a  peculiar,  affected,  tip-wing  flight,  and  haunt- 
ing the  groves  and  orchards,  while  the  great  crested 
flycatcher  is  rufous  or  copper-colored,  with  a  tinge 
of  saffron-yellow,  haunting  the  woods  and  building 
its  nest  in  a  cavity  in  a  tree,  occasionally  in  or- 
chards. 

Nature  repeats  herself  with  variations  in  two  of 
our  sparrows  —  the  song  sparrow,  and  the  vesper 
sparrow,  or  grass  finch.  The  latter  is  a  trifle  the 
larger  and  of  a  lighter  mottled  gray-and-brown 
color,  and  has  certain  field  habits,  such  as  skulking 
or  running  in  the  grass  and  running  along  the  high- 
way in  front  of  your  team.  It  does  not  wear  the 
little  dark-brown  breastpin  that  the  song  sparrow 
does,  and  it  has  two  lateral  white  quills  in  its  tail 
which  are  conspicuous  when  it  flies.  Its  general 
color,  and  these  white  quills,  suggest  the  skylark, 
and  it  was  doubtless  these  features  that  led  a  male 
lark  which  once  came  to  me  from  overseas,  and 
which  I  liberated  in  a  wide  field  near  home,  to  pay 
court  to  the  vesper  and  to  press  his  suit  day  after 
day,  to  the  obvious  embarrassment  of  the  sparrow. 

The  song  sparrow  is  better  known  than  the  vesper 

168 


EACH  AFTER  ITS  KIND 

to  all  country  people,  because  it  lives  nearer  our 
dwellings.  It  is  an  asset  of  every  country  garden  and 
lawn  and  near-by  roadside,  and  it  occasionally 
spends  the  winter  in  the  Hudson  River  Valley  when 
you  have,  carelessly  or  thoughtfully,  left  a  harvest 
of  v/eed-seeds  for  it  to  subsist  upon.  It  comes  before 
the  vesper  in  the  spring,  and  its  simple  song  on  a 
bright  March  or  April  morning  is  one  of  the  most 
welcome  of  all  vernal  sounds.  In  its  manners  it  is 
more  fussy  and  suspicious  than  the  vesper,  and  it 
worries  a  great  deal  about  its  nest  if  one  comes  any- 
where in  its  vicinity.  It  is  one  of  the  familiar,  half- 
domesticated  birds  that  suggest  home  to  us  wher- 
ever we  see  it. 

The  song  sparrow  is  remarkable  above  any  other 
bird  I  know  for  its  repertoire  of  songs.  Few  of  our 
birds  have  more  than  one  song,  except  in  those  cases 
when  a  flight  song  is  added  during  the  mating  sea- 
son, as  with  the  oven-bird,  the  purple  finch,  the 
goldfinch,  the  meadowlark,  and  a  few  others.  But 
every  song  sparrow  has  at  least  five  distinct  songs 
that  differ  from  one  another  as  much  as  any  five 
lyrics  by  the  same  pOet  differ.  The  bird  from  its 
perch  on  the  bush  or  tree  will  repeat  one  song  over 
and  over,  usually  five  or  six  times  a  minute,  for  two 
or  three  minutes,  then  it  will  change  to  another 
strain  quite  different  in  time  and  measure,  and  re- 
peat it  for  a  dozen  or  more  times ;  then  it  drops  into 
still  another  and  yet  another  and  another,  each 

169 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

song  standing  out  distinctly  as  a  new  combination 
and  sequence  of  sparrow  notes.  And  a  still  greater 
wonder  is  that  no  two  song  sparrows  have  the  same 
repertoire.  Each  bird  has  his  own  mdividual  songs, 
an  endless  and  bewildering  variety  inside  a  general 
resemblance.  The  song  sparrow  you  hear  in  Maine 
or  Canada  differs  widely  from  the  one  you  hear  in 
the  Hudson  River  Valley  or  on  the  Potomac.  Even 
in  the  same  neighborhood  I  have  never  yet  heard 
two  sparrows  whose  songs  were  exactly  alike, 
whereas  two  robins  or  meadowlarks  or  bluebirds 
or  wood  thrushes  or  vesper  sparrows  or  goldfinches 
or  indigo-birds  differ  from  one  another  in  their  songs 
as  little  as  they  do  in  their  forms  and  manners,  and 
from  one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other  there  is 
little  or  no  variation. 

During  ten  days  by  the  sea  one  July  I  was  greatly 
entertained  by  a  song  sparrow  which  had  a  favorite 
perch  on  the  top  of  a  small  red  cedar  that  stood  in 
front  of  the  cottage  where  I  was  staying.  Four  fifths 
of  the  day  at  least  it  was  perched  upon  this  little 
cedar  platform,  going  through  its  repertoire  of  song, 
over  and  over.  Getting  its  living  seemed  entirely  a 
secondary  matter;  the  primary  matter  was  the  song. 
I  estimated  that  it  sang  over  two  thousand  times 
each  day  that  I  heard  it.  It  had  probably  been  sing- 
ing at  the  same  rate  since  May  or  earlier,  and  would 
probably  keep  it  up  till  August  or  later.  The  latter 
part  of  July  and  the  whole  of  August  of  the  same 

170 


EACH  AFTER  ITS  KIND 

season  I  spent  at  Woodchuck  Lodge  in  the  Catskills, 
and  across  the  road  in  front  of  the  porch  there,  on 
the  top  of  an  old  plum-tree,  a  song  sparrow  sang 
throughout  the  greater  part  of  each  summer  day, 
as  did  the  one  by  the  sea,  going  through  its  reper- 
toire of  five  or  six  songs  in  happy  iteration.  It,  too, 
sang  about  three  hundred  times  an  hour,  and  nearly 
always  from  the  same  perch,  and,  as  most  assuredly 
was  the  case  with  the  seaside  bird,  singing  within 
earshot  of  its  brooding  mate.  But  its  songs  bore  only 
the  most  remote  general  resemblance  to  those  of  its 
seaside  brother.  When,  early  in  August,  the  mowing- 
machine  laid  low  the  grass  in  the  meadow  on  the 
edge  of  which  the  old  plum-tree  stood,  the  singer  be- 
haved as  if  some  calamity  had  befallen  him,  as  no 
doubt  there  had.  He  disappeared  from  his  favorite 
perch,  and  I  heard  him  no  more  except  at  long 
intervals  below  the  hill  in  another  field. 

The  vesper  sparrow  has  a  wilder  and  more  pleas- 
ing song  than  the  song  sparrow,  but  has  no  variety; 
so  far  as  my  ear  can  judge,  it  has  only  the  one  sweet, 
plaintive  strain  in  which  it  indulges  while  perched 
upon  a  stone  or  boulder  or  bare  knoll  in  a  hill  pas- 
ture or  by  a  remote  roadside.  The  charm  of  its  song 
is  greatly  enhanced  by  the  soft  summer  twilight  in 
which  it  is  so  often  uttered;  it  sounds  the  vespers  of 
the  fields.  The  vesper  sparrow  is  invariably  a  ground- 
builder,  placing  its  nest  of  dry  grass  in  the  open 
with  rarely  a  weed  or  tuft  of  grass  to  mark  its  site. 

171 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

Hence  its  eggs  or  young  often  fall  victims  to  the 
sharp-eyed,  all-devouring  crows,  as  they  lead  their 
clamorous  broods  about  the  summer  pastures.  The 
song  sparrow  more  frequently  selects  its  nesting- 
place  in  a  grassy  or  mossy  bank  by  the  roadside  or 
in  the  orchard,  when  it  does  not  leave  the  ground 
to  take  to  a  low  bush  or  tangle  of  vines  on  the  lawn, 
as  it  so  frequently  does. 

We  have  two  other  sparrow^s  that  are  close  akin 
—  indeed,  almost  like  fruit  on  the  same  tree  —  yet 
with  clear-cut  differences.  I  refer  to  the  "chippie," 
or  social  sparrow,  and  the  field,  or,  as  I  prefer  to 
call  it,  the  bush  sparrow  —  two  birds  that  come  so 
near  being  duplicates  of  each  other  that  in  my  boy- 
hood I  recognized  only  the  one  species,  the  chip- 
ping sparrow,  so  much  at  home  in  the  orchard  and 
around  the  dooryard.  Few  country  persons,  I  fancy, 
discriminate  the  two  species.  They  are  practically 
of  the  same  size  and  same  manners,  but  differ  in 
color.  The  bush  sparrow  is  more  russet,  has  a  russet 
beak  and  feet  and  legs,  and  its  general  appearance 
harmonizes  more  with  country  surroundings.  The 
two  species  differ  in  about  the  same  way  that  the 
town-dweller  differs  from  his  rustic  brother.  But  in 
the  matter  of  song  there  is  no  comparison  —  the 
strain  of  the  bush  sparrow  being  one  of  the  most 
tender  and  musical  of  all  our  sparrow  songs,  while 
that  of  the  "chippie,"  or  the  hair-bird,  as  it  is  often 
called,  is  a  shuffling  repetition  of  a  single  unmusical 

172 


EACH  AFTER  ITS  KIND 

note.  The  wild  scenes  and  field  solitudes  are  reflected 
in  the  bush  sparrow's  song,  while  that  of  the  chip- 
pie is  more  suggestive  of  the  sights  and  sounds 
near  the  haunts  of  men.  The  pure,  plaintive,  child- 
like strain  of  the  bush  sparrow  —  a  silver  scroll  of 
tender  song  —  heard  in  the  prophetic  solitude  of 
the  remote  fields  on  a  soft  April  or  May  morning  is 
to  me  one  of  the  most  touching  and  pleasing  bits  of 
bird-music  to  be  heard  in  the  whole  round  year. 

The  swarms  of  small  sparrows  that  one  sees  in 
August  and  September  in  the  vineyards  and  along 
the  bushy  highways  are  made  up  mostly  of  bush 
sparrows.  There  is  a  little  doubt  but  that  these 
birds  at  times  peck  and  haggle  the  grapes,  which 
"Chippie"  never  does.  The  bush  sparrow  builds  the 
more  compact  and  substantial  nest,  using  more  dry 
grass  and  weedy  growths,  and  less  horsehair.  It  is 
the  abundant  use  of  hair  that  has  given  "Chippie" 
the  name  of  the  hair-bird. 

The  hair-bird  appears  the  more  strikingly  dressed 
of  the  two.  Its  black  beak  and  legs,  the  darker  lines 
on  its  plumage,  the  well-defined,  brick-red  patch 
on  its  head  easily  separate  it  to  the  careful  observer 
from  the  other  species.  When  you  have  learned 
quickly  to  discriminate  these  two  kinds  of  sparrows, 
you  have  made  a  good  beginning  in  conquering  the 
bird  kingdom. 


XII 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE 

THE  greatest  pleasure  of  life  is  the  pleasure  of 
knowledge,  the  knowledge  of  what  men  have 
thought  and  done  in  the  world  —  their  history,  their 
literature,  their  religion,  their  philosophy.  But  I  am 
going  to  speak  here  of  a  particular  kind  of  knowl- 
edge —  the  knowledge  that  has  come  to  us  through 
the  discoveries  and  the  deductions  of  modern  sci- 
ence. This  is  comparatively  new  knowledge,  but  it 
now  modifies  or  colors  all  our  old  conceptions  of  the 
universe.  Yet  a  great  many  educated  persons  feel 
but  a  languid  interest  in  it.  Its  impersonal  and 
strictly  objective  character  rather  repels  them. 
There  is  a  widespread  feeling  that  it  kills  poetry  and 
romance,  and  is  the  enemy  of  religion.  Of  the  old 
historical  religions  founded  largely  upon  man's 
credulity  and  superstition,  it  surely  is  the  enemy.  It 
discloses  to  us  new  ground  for  wonder  and  awe  in 
the  presence  of  the  universe,  and  gives  to  the  moral 
law  a  surer  foundation  than  can  be  found  in  the 
dictum  of  any  creed  or  sect. 

The  childish  conception  of  nature  of  the  pre- 
scientific  age  we  are  lucky  to  get  rid  of.  Do  we  ex- 
perience any  sense  of  loss  when  we  find  out  that 
echo  is  not  a  nymph  hiding  there  in  the  wood  or  in 

174) 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE 

the  rocks,  and  that  the  rainbow  is  not  painted  upon 
the  clouds  by  some  mysterious  hand  as  a  sign  and 
promise  to  man,  and  that  man  himself  has  a  line  of 
descent  that  connects  him  with  the  lowest  forms  of 
life? 

Without  laying  claim  to  being  in  any  strict  sense 
a  man  of  science,  I  yet  take  great  pleasure  in  the 
world  of  new  truths  which  science  offers  us.  I  graze 
eagerly  in  every  one  of  its  fields  —  astronomy,  geol- 
ogy, botany,  zoology,  physics,  chemistry,  natural 
history.  I  do  little  more  than  graze  in  these  fields. 
I  select  what  tastes  good  to  me.  I  want  only  the 
vital  nourishing  truths;  for  the  lard,  mechanical 
facts,  the  minute  details,  the  thistles  of  technical 
knowledge  I  have  little  appetite.  I  join  inquiry  with 
contemplation.  I  loiter  about  the  rocks,  but  I  carry 
no  geologist's  hammer.  I  observe  the  birds,  but  I 
take  no  notes.  I  admire  the  flowers,  but  I  can  leave 
them  on  their  stems;  I  have  no  herbarium  to  fill.  I 
am  curious  about  the  insects,  I  consider  their  ways, 
but  I  make  no  collection. 

My  science  is  as  improfessional  as  my  religion. 
I  tarry  under  the  trees,  muse  by  the  streams,  and 
commune  with  my  own  soul  through  the  living  and 
non-living  forms  that  surround  me.  Science  only 
seasons  my  observations.  If  I  do  carry  home  a 
flower,  it  is  for  its  beauty,  or  its  association;  if  I 
gather  a  zoological  specimen,  it  is  because  it  has 
more  than  a  zoological  interest.  Exact  knowledge  is 

i5 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

good,  but  vital  knowledge  is  better;  details  are  in- 
dispensable to  the  specialist,  but  a  knowledge  of 
relations  and  of  wholes  satisfies  me  more. 

All  the  facts  of  natural  science  that  throw  light 
upon  the  methods  and  the  spirit  of  nature,  are 
doubly  welcome.  I  can  assimilate  them.  I  can  appre- 
ciate their  ideal  values.  I  can  link  them  up  with  my 
intellectual  and  emotional  experiences.  They  make 
me  feel  more  at  home  in  the  world  because  they  so 
enlarge  my  field  of  interest.  The  ground  under- 
foot becomes  a  history,  the  stars  overhead  a  reve- 
lation, the  play  of  the  invisible  and  unsuspected 
forces  about  me  and  through  me  a  new  kind  of 
gospel. 

Yet  I  seem  to  approach  nature  through  my 
understanding  and  desire  for  knowledge  more 
than  through  any  ethical  or  purely  poetical  craving. 
There  is  little  of  the  moralist  or  preacher  in  me,  but 
a  good  deal  of  the  philosopher  and  investigator.  I 
want  to  know  the  reason  of  things,  and  the  relations 
of  things,  their  intellectual  rather  than  their  moral 
values.  I  do  not  want  the  precise  figures  of  the 
astronomer,  nor  the  detailed  proofs  of  the  geologist, 
nor  the  formulae  of  the  chemist,  nor  the  data  of  the 
zoologist;  what  I  want  is  light  upon  the  whole  of 
Nature  —  her  methods,  her  laws,  her  results,  her 
non-human  ways.  What  I  get  out  of  botany  would 
hardly  be  available  for  the  classroom;  what  I  get 
out  of  biology  would  not  go  into  a  textbook.  I  love 

176 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE 

geology  because  it  tells  me  much  of  the  past  of  my 
own  landscape;  it  throws  light  on  the  methods  of 
Nature;  it  gives  my  imagination  room  to  work;  the 
ground  underfoot  becomes  historic;  it  is  like  the 
story  of  one's  own  family  WTitten  large  in  the  val- 
leys and  on  the  mountains.  The  rocks  that  cumber 
your  field  are  couriers  from  the  geologic  ages,  the 
mountains  were  not  always  there,  and  the  streams 
and  rivers  are  as  fugitive  as  the  dew.  The  waterfalls 
at  the  heads  of  the  gorges  —  what  stories  they  tell 
of  time  and  erosion!  And  the  ledges  and  caverns  are 
eloquent  of  ages  long  gone.  I  do  not  look  for  sermons 
in  stones  nor  for  books  in  the  running  brooks,  I  only 
look  for  a  page,  or  a  fragment  of  a  page,  of  earth's 
history.  One  picks  up  a  stone  with  the  interest  he 
might  feel  in  picking  up  a  relic  on  a  battle-field;  con- 
tending forces  have  fought  over  that  ground,  not 
often  with  shout  and  uproar,  as  on  human  battle- 
fields, but  silently  and  with  the  slowness  of  infinite 
time.  Here  is  a  flint  nodule,  or  an  angular  fragment 
of  granite  rock,  or  a  wave- worn  pebble,  or  a  rounded 
granite  boulder,  where  no  other  granite  is  —  what  a 
tale  of  time  and  change  each  of  these  has  to  tell  us 
if  we  can  but  read  it! 

I  have  a  paper-weight  on  my  table  picked  up  in  a 
Catskill  trout  stream.  It  consists  of  a  wave-worn 
quartz  pebble  about  the  size  of  a  butternut,  em- 
bedded in  a  hard  matrix  of  gray  sand.  It  is  a  frag- 
ment from  the  conglomerate  sandstone  that  caps 

177 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

the  higher  Catskills,  a  chapter  of  world-history 
in  miniature.  It  tells  of  the  ancient  sea-beaches  of 
early  Devonian  times,  and  of  the  breaking-up  of 
vast  sheets  of  quartz  rock  of  still  earlier  times.  It 
tells  of  the  laying-down  of  the  sandstone  strata  in 
this  vastly  remote  period,  and  of  floods  that  carried 
and  scattered  these  big  quartz  pebbles  upon  it.  It 
tells  of  the  lifting-up  of  these  strata  in  the  great 
Catskill  plateau,  and  their  subsequent  erosion  into 
deep  valleys,  and  their  grinding-down  by  the  great 
ice-sheet.  When  I  hold  it  in  my  hand  I  seem  to  hear 
the  great  clock  of  geologic  time  ticking  oS  the  vast 
periods  that  are  but  hoiu-s  in  the  cycle  of  geologic 
change. 

In  Georgia  I  used  to  see  large  areas  of  the  red  soil 
under  the  plough,  covered  with  fragments  of  quartz, 
suggesting  bones.  What  a  story  they  told  of  the 
decay  of  the  granite  rocks  out  of  which  so  much  of 
the  soil  of  the  State  is  made,  setting  free  the  streaks 
of  quartz  in  them  which  is  so  hard  that  the  tooth  of 
time  makes  little  impression  upon  it. 

The  Southern  granite  decays  much  more  readily 
than  does  the  New  England  granite,  just  why  I  can- 
not say.  New  England  granite  erodes  very  slowly, 
but  Georgian  granite  seems  to  rot.  Wliere  these 
brilliant  red  roads  cut  through  the  hills,  they  lay 
open  the  earth  from  the  ploughable  soil  at  the  sur- 
face to  the  decaying,  crumbling,  highly  colored 

178 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE 

strata  of  granite  ten  or  fifteen  feet  below.  The  ver- 
tical sides  of  the  roads  are  like  painted  charts  show- 
ing all  the  gradations  of  the  decaying  rock-strata. 
Five  or  six  feet  below  the  surface  one  can  cut  the 
granite  like  cheese.  From  a  brilliant  terra-cotta  it 
fades  out  as  you  go  down,  and  as  the  rock  becomes 
harder  and  harder,  until  the  original  gray  of  the 
strata  begins  to  appear,  and  bars  and  wedges  are 
required  to  remove  it.  Occasionally  a  vein  of  quartz 
is  exposed  which  shows  no  sign  of  decay.  All  North- 
ern granite  that  I  have  seen  is  as  hard  at  the  surface 
as  anywhere  beneath  it,  but  Southern  granite  seems 
to  possess  some  inherent  principle  of  decay.  Yet 
there  are  here  scattered  areas  where  the  rock  resists 
decay  and  huge  masses  crop  out  and  seem  to  shake 
their  gigantic  fists  in  the  face  of  Time.  One  such 
mass  which  I  twice  visited  and  climbed  is  called 
"Stone  Mountain,"  not  many  miles  east  of  Atlanta. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  striking  granite  knobs  in  the 
world.  One  sees  it  from  afar  rising  above  the  sur- 
rounding country,  its  light-gray  surface  mottled 
with  dark  patches  of  pitch  pine.  Its  base  is  six  miles 
around,  and  its  summit  nearly  a  thousand  feet 
above.  Its  shape  suggests  a  huge  pear,  the  stem  end 
being  long  and  low,  and  the  blossom  end  high  and 
abrupt.  Standing  on  the  high  curve  of  this  end,  one 
cannot  see  the  base  of  the  mountain  beneath  him, 
and  the  cherry-pits  which  I  dropped  from  my  lunch 
bounded  down  over  the  brim  and  fell  to  the  ground 

179 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

many  hundred  feet  below.  The  rock  apparently  does 
not  undergo  any  chemical  change  as  has  the  rock 
of  the  surrounding  country  in  which  it  is  rooted,  but 
it  disintegrates  much  more  rapidly  than  Northern 
granite  and  has  imparted  a  hght-gray  hue  to  the  red 
lands  that  spread  out  from  its  base.  Huge  slabs 
weather  off  its  surface  and  their  degradation  affords 
enough  soil  here  and  there  to  give  sustenance  to  low 
growi:hs  of  pitch  pine.  The  rock  as  a  whole  must 
have  shrunk  enormously  even  in  our  geologic  age, 
probably  many  times  its  present  size;  yet  it  remains 
one  of  the  most  notable  outcroppings  of  the  orig- 
inal granite  in  this  country. 

Why  granite  rock  is  so  soft  and  ungranite-like 
in  the  southern  countries  is  to  me  a  puzzle  —  the 
result,  perhaps,  of  some  circumstance  of  its  original 
cooHng.  In  southern  California,  at  Riverside,  tour- 
ists climb  or  motor  to  a  bold  granite  peak  called 
Rubidoux.  The  sides  and  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain are  strewn  with  huge  rounded  granite  boulders. 
I  chanced  to  overhear  a  tourist  explaining  to  a 
friend  that  these  detached  boulders  were  brought 
there  and  dropped  by  the  old  ice-sheet  that  covered 
the  northern  part  of  the  continent  ages  ago.  But  he 
was  giving  his  friend  a  bit  of  misinformation.  The 
old  ice-sheet  did  not  extend  so  far  south,  and  these 
plump,  smooth  boulders  had  simply  weathered  out 
of  the  underlying  granite,  and  had  never  left  the 
land   of   their  birth.  They  were  a  titanic  brood 

180 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE 

hatched  out  of  the  mountain  by  Time  brooding 
over  it  for  geologic  ages. 

Geology  invests  every  square  yard  of  the  earth's 
surface  with  interest.  I  lay  claim  to  only  a  fragmen- 
tary knowledge  of  the  noble  science,  yet  it  adds  to 
the  enjoyment  of  every  bit  of  new  land  I  see,  every 
visit  I  make  to  quarries,  every  glance  I  get  of  the 
stone  tablets  which  the  delvers  and  tunnelers  bring 
out  of  the  earth.  They  are  pages  torn  from  the 
great  stone  book  of  earthly  revelations.  They  are 
often  nearly  blank  pages  to  me,  but  they  pique  my 
curiosity  and  add  to  my  interest  in  the  great  book. 
A  little  knowledge  of  geology  goes  a  great  way  in 
giving  me  pleasure  in  my  walks  and  excursions. 
When  a  new  friend,  curious  about  such  things, 
comes  to  see  me,  I  march  him  up  to  my  hay  barn 
and  show  him  a  geological  treasure  in  one  of  its 
foundation  stones ;  it  is  a  complete  and  distinct  im- 
pression, in  a  fragment  of  the  light-gray  Catskill 
formation,  of  the  leaf  of  a  plant  or  tree  that  flour- 
ished millions  of  years  ago,  in  Devonian  times,  prior 
to  the  coal  formation  —  a  narrow,  bladelike  leaf, 
about  a  foot  long,  parallel- veined  and  deeply  graven 
on  the  rock  —  one  of  the  early  Gymnosperms  of  the 
order  of  Cycads,  and  called  Cordaites  costatus.  One 
has  to  supply  a  little  imagination  in  order  to  get  up 
an  interest  in  such  a  thing,  but  what  is  life,  anyhow, 
without  imagination  and  void  of  curiosity  about 
the  earth  we  inhabit? 

181 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

In  a  recent  motor-car  tour  in  the  States  south  of 
me  —  Maryland,  Virginia,  West  Virginia,  East 
Tennessee,  and  North  Carolina  —  my  interest  in 
the  landscape  was  greatly  heightened  through  my 
knowledge  of  some  of  the  larger  facts  of  geology. 
The  deep,  V-shaped  valleys,  in  contradistinction  to 
my  own  broad,  U-shaped  valleys,  at  once  caught 
my  eye.  In  many  places  the  sides  of  the  valleys  were 
so  steep,  and  the  tops  of  the  hills  so  smooth  and 
round,  that  the  farms  were  on  their  summits  and 
the  hillsides  left  wooded.  I  should  not  have  known 
how  to  account  for  these  features  had  I  not  known 
that  we  were  beyond  the  Umits  of  the  great  con- 
tinental glacier  that  swept  over  the  northern  part 
of  the  country  many  thousands  of  years  ago,  and 
which  so  broadened  and  deepened  our  valleys  and 
strewed  the  landscape  with  rocks  and  stones.  In 
many  places  in  West  Virginia  one  could  see  where 
there  had  been  local  glaciers  by  the  drift  boulders 
and  rocky  fragments  scattered  over  the  fields.  In 
going  from  the  Catskill  region  to  the  mountainous 
region  of  Pennsylvania,  one  sees  a  change  in  the 
landscape  that  his  knowledge  of  this  great  ice- 
sheet,  and  of  the  geological  formation  of  the  two 
sections,  helps  to  clear  up.  The  farm  lands  in  Penn- 
sylvania are  not  stony  and  rock-strewn  as  they  are 
in  parts  of  New  York.  In  the  Catskills  the  rock- 
strata  lie  in  thin  horizontal  sheets,  and  are  easily 
disrupted  and  torn  away.  In  the  mountains  of 

182 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE 

Pennsylvania,  they  are  of  different  material  and 
are  folded  and  thrust  upward;  hence  they  presented 
the  edges  of  the  rock  to  the  ice-sheet,  instead  of 
broad,  flat  surfaces,  and  were  not  so  easily  dislo- 
cated and  broken  up. 

As  a  boy  I  had  heard  through  relatives  who  had 
moved  from  the  Catskills  to  Pennsylvania  that 
they  had  to  build  their  fences  of  rails,  as  their  farms 
were  quite  free  from  rocks  and  stones.  Now  I  saw 
the  reason.  The  stone  walls  I  had  helped  build  in 
nay  youth,  and  the  stones  that  had  been  in  the  way 
of  my  hoe  in  the  cornfield,  were  chargeable  to  the 
old  ice-sheet.  But  the  fragments  of  quartz  that  strew 
some  of  the  cotton-fields  of  the  South  have  another 
explanation;  they  are  what  is  left  of  the  granite, 
the  decay  of  which  makes  up  the  soils  of  those 
sections. 

This  rudimentary  knowledge  of  geology,  com- 
bined with  a  fair  knowledge  of  the  plants  and  trees, 
the  birds  and  the  four-footed  creatures,  helps  greatly 
to  make  country  life  worth  while. 

I  remember  the  look  of  mingled  surprise  and 
incredulity  of  the  old  farmer  when  I  told  him  that 
his  soil  had  once  been  rocks;  that  it  was  not  created 
as  he  saw  it  there  being  turned  up  by  his  plough  or 
spade;  that  it  had  been  thousands,  yes,  millions  of 
years  in  the  making.  He  fancied  that  the  Almighty 
fiat  had  called  from  nothingness  the  stones  and 
rocks  where  they  lay  upon  the  soil,  and  that  the  soil 

183 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

itself  had  come  in  the  same  way.  From  planets  to 
peas,  things  are  slow  a-coming,  and  ceaseless  change 
and  transformation  mark  their  courses. 

One  cannot  store  one's  mind  with  any  consider- 
able part  of  the  technical  knowledge  which  science 
brings,  and  does  not  need  to.  An  observer  and  lover 
of  Natm-e,  like  myself,  craves  only  insight  into  her 
methods;  loves  to  trace  her  footsteps,  as  it  were; 
to  contrast  her  prodigality  in  some  fields  with  her 
parsimony  in  others;  to  note  her  contradictions, 
and  to  cross-question  her  till  they  are  cleared  up. 
Bird  and  beast  and  tree  and  plant  are  each  vital 
points  of  contact  with  the  vast  whole,  and  the  self- 
same currents  flow  in  each. 

I  turn  to  chemistry,  not  for  technical  knowledge 
of  substances  and  compounds,  but  for  new  proof 
of  Nature's  wonders  and  mysteries.  It  reveals  to 
me  a  new  world  that  ordinarily  our  eyes  and  ears  do 
not  take  in  —  a  world  of  activities  and  potencies  so 
unlike  the  world  of  tangible  bodies  and  mechanical 
forces  in  which  we  habitually  live,  that  it  never 
ceases  to  be  a  surprise  and  delight  to  me.  Mechanical 
relations  and  rebounds  we  come  in  contact  with 
constantly  —  mechanical  mixtures  and  suspen- 
sions and  sif tings  and  transportations;  but  chemical 
reactions  and  transmutations  are  entirely  of  an- 
other order.  In  mechanics  we  get  change  of  bulk, 
of  place,  of  direction,  of  form,  of  color;  in  chemistry 
we  get  a  change  of  substance,  of  quality,  of  nature; 

181 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE 

it  is  as  if  two  and  two  made  three  or  five,  as  if  one 
gathered  grapes  of  thorns,  and  figs  of  thistles.  What 
can  be  more  marvelous  than  the  elementary  fact 
that  two  invisible  and  tasteless  and  odorless  gases, 
oxygen  and  hydrogen,  unite  chemically  in  certain 
proportions,  producing  water  —  a  body  totally 
unlike  either?  Oxygen  supports  combustion,  hy- 
drogen burns  freely,  and  yet  water  quenches  fixe  — 
the  magic  of  chemical  reactions  truly ! 

Think  of  the  terrific  forces  bound  up  in  chemical 
compounds  which  fire  or  a  blow  releases!  We  can 
form  no  mechanical  image  of  such  things.  Our 
springs  and  coils  and  weights  may  hold  great  forces 
in  leash,  but  no  more  than  what  we  put  into  them. 
The  clock  in  running  gives  back  or  uses  up  the 
forces  you  put  into  it  in  winding,  but  the  explosive 
compound  releases  energy  that  is  of  chemical  origin; 
it  is  created  then  and  there  through  the  action  of 
the  law  of  chemical  aflinity.  Nitrogen  is  the  princi- 
pal element  in  all  the  terrible  explosions,  and  yet 
nitrogen  is  the  most  inert,  lazy,  or  indifferent  of 
the  primary  elements.  It  is  reluctant  to  combine 
with  any  other  element.  Mixed  with  oxygen,  the 
two  form  our  air.  Were  it  suddenly  to  unite  with 
oxygen  chemically,  of  which  there  is  no  danger,  our 
atmosphere  would  disappear;  and  we  should  have 
in  its  place  a  sea  of  ammonia  or  of  nitrous  acids. 

It  is  a  kind  of  revelation  when  we  know  that  the 
greater  part  of  the  solid  earth  is  made  of  gas.  A 

185 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

large  proportion  of  the  earth's  crust  is  composed  of 
oxygen  united  with  the  mineral  salts.  The  breath  of 
life  goes  to  make  up  the  rocks  and  the  sea  and  the 
soil  we  till.  When  two  elements  combine  chemi- 
cally, there  is  a  mysterious  interlocking  of  the 
atoms  of  which  these  elements  are  composed.  But 
as  the  atom  itself  is  inconceivable,  —  a  solid  particle 
of  matter  non-divisible,  —  one  cannot  picture  to 
himself,  or  visualize,  just  what  takes  place.  His  ac- 
quaintance with  a  mechanical  world  does  not  help 
him.  No  more  can  he  conceive  what  takes  place 
when  the  mere  presence  of  a  third  body  in  some 
cases  causes  two  other  bodies  to  unite  chemically, 
as  if  certain  substances  in  relation  to  certain  other 
substances  were  capable  of  a  sort  of  priestly  func- 
tion. This  power  is  called  catalysis. 

A  Swedish  chemist  has  said  that  the  third  sub- 
stance seemed  to  act  by  arousing  the  slumbering 
aflfinities  of  the  two  other  substances.  So  far  as  is 
known,  it  does  not  part  with  an  atom  of  its  own  sub- 
stance; by  its  magical  presence  alone  it  hastens  the 
chemical  union  of  the  two  other  bodies.  This  fact 
of  catalysis  is  now  largely  made  use  of  in  the  arts 
of  manufacture. 

If  we  had  the  vision  of  the  biochemist  we  should 
see  ourselves  living  in  a  world  made  up  of  two  hos- 
tile camps  —  the  micro-organisms  that  build  up 
and  the  micro-organisms  that  pull  down.  An  inces- 
sant war  is  waged  between  them,  but  final  victory 

186 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE 

rests  with  neither.  Indeed,  it  is  a  perpetual  victory 
and  a  perpetual  defeat,  and  our  well-being  is  in  the 
drawn  battle.  If  living  bodies  were  not  pulled  down, 
there  would  very  soon  be  no  material  to  build  more, 
or  to  rebuild.  It  is  like  the  compositor  with  his  type. 
If  the  compositor  did  not  take  down  and  redistrib- 
ute his  type,  he  could  print  no  more  books.  Life 
and  death  go  hand  in  hand.  Death  has  its  living 
side.  What  we  call  decay  and  corruption  is  the  work 
of  living  organisms,  not  less  than  are  what  we  call 
growth  and  health;  but,  we  may  say,  of  a  lower  and 
less  specialized  order.  The  germs  that  pull  down 
the  body  of  your  dog  are  the  same  as  those  that  pull 
down  your  own  body,  but  the  germs  that  build 
these  up  are  different,  at  least  they  work  to  nobler 
ends.  The  pulling-down  process  is  to  return  to  Na- 
ture the  elements  that  came  from  her;  the  build- 
ing-up process  is  to  produce  a  result  that  contrasts 
strongly  with  the  work  of  elemental  nature.  The 
pulling-down  process  goes  on  mechanically  all  about 
us,  at  all  times,  and  it  is  equally  active  chemically. 
You  can  hardly  make  two  stones,  one  piled  on  the 
other,  stay  piled  long.  Pile  up  your  cord  of  stove- 
wood  in  the  woods  as  carefully  as  you  may,  and 
very  soon  it  begins  to  incline  more  or  less  to  the 
ground.  Everything  has  a  tilt.  "Come  down,  come 
down,"  say  the  natural  forces,  "you  oppose  the 
equilibrium  I  love."  Wind,  rain,  frost,  are  the  great 
levelers.  The  hills  and  the  mountains  are  every- 

187 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

where  being  slowly  pulled  down.  Where  they  are 
being  lifted  up  by  the  shrinkage  of  the  planet,  their 
surfaces  are  being  constantly  worn  down  by  the 
action  of  the  elements.  Mechanical  erosion  and 
chemical  disintegration  play  into  each  other's  hands. 
The  sea  is  only  liquid  land;  all  the  elements  of  the 
soil  are  in  it,  held  in  chemical  solution  or  in  mechan- 
ical suspension.  Indeed,  many  of  these  elements  are 
in  the  air  also  and  are  captured  and  used  by  the  air- 
plants.  It  is  almost  certain  that  what  we  call  empty 
space  is  filled  with  the  dust  of  extinct  or  of  un- 
created worlds. 

We  know  our  atmosphere  is  filled  with  living 
organisms,  as  well  as  with  mineral  matter.  It  is  only 
with  the  mind's  eye  that  we  can  see  the  world  of 
elements  and  activities  in  which  we  are  immersed. 

The  mechanical  and  the  chemical  processes  that 
go  on  all  about  us  —  the  tearing  and  wearing,  the 
pulling  and  transporting,  the  falling  and  crushing, 
then  the  burnings  and  explosions,  the  transforma- 
tions and  dissolutions,  the  reactions  and  precipita- 
tions ! 

Then  there  is  another  process  which  we  call  vital 
which  is  much  more  mysterious,  which  utilizes  the 
mechanical  and  chemical,  but  is  not  of  them.  These 
two  forces  worked  together  through  long  astronomic 
and  geologic  ages  without  producing  living  matter, 
then  the  time  dawned  when  what  we  call  life  ap- 

188 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE 

peared.  When  I  think  of  these  things  I  am  com- 
pelled to  see  a  new  principle  operating  in  non-living 
matter  to  produce  the  living.  We  see  chemical 
affinity  working  to  produce  the  various  compounds 
—  why  not  vital  affinity  working  to  produce  living 
bodies? 

The  difficulty  to  the  scientific  mind  is  the  idea 
of  a  new  principle.  Physics  and  chemistry  are  coeval 
with  time,  but  life,  as  we  are  compelled  to  think  of 
it,  is  not.  So  there  we  are  up  a  stump.  One  trouble 
is  we  think  too  sharply  of  the  beginning  of  life, 
think  imder  the  figure  of  our  own  beginnings,  or  of 
mechanical  beginnings.  Vital  beginnings  are  brought 
about  by  slow,  insensible  changes,  there  are  no 
sharp  lines.  The  wheels  begin  to  revolve,  the  ice 
in  the  river  begins  to  move.  Life  did  not  begin  in 
that  way;  it  was  beginning,  or  beginning  to  get 
ready  to  begin,  for  all  time.  The  potentiality  of  it 
existed  in  matter  from  the  first.  As  the  conditions 
slowly  ripened,  life  was  slowly  beginning,  so  we 
have  to  think  of  it  as  life  and  not-life,  positive  and 
negative,  at  the  same  time.  But  this  is  not  the  only 
case  in  nature  where  contradictions  unite.  When 
does  the  day  begin  to  dawn,  or  the  night  to  end.^^ 
The  chick  breaks  the  shell  at  a  definite  moment  of 
time,  but  when  did  it  start  on  the  road  of  chick- 
hood?  The  clock  begins  to  strike,  but  when  did  it 
begin  to  be  a  clock?  The  beginnings  and  endings  of 
things  are  baffling.  Where  is  the  beginning  of  the 

189 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

circuit  of  the  waters  from  the  earth  to  the  clouds? 
Circles,  circles,  everywhere.  When  does  a  body  be- 
gin to  decay?  At  any  precise  moment?  We  uncon- 
sciously look  upon  the  decay  of  dead  bodies  as  a 
spontaneous  process;  we  think  of  it  as  inevitable. 
But  under  certain  conditions  dead  bodies  do  not 
decay,  no  change  in  them  takes  place;  place  them 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  hosts  of  micro-organisms 
and  they  are  safe.  These  two  hosts,  the  destructive 
and  the  constructive  germs,  what  is  their  relation? 
The  destructive  are  in  the  air,  the  water,  the  soil, 
and  in  our  bodies;  where   are  the   constructive? 
The  ferments  and  the  enzymes  are  in  our  own  bod- 
ies, but  where  does  the  body  get  them?  The  cell  is 
the  architect  of  the  living  body,  but  what  is  the 
architect  of  the  cell?  We  know  its  elementary  con- 
stituents, but  what  combines  them,  what  guides 
them,  or  inspires  them  to  construct  organs,  and 
inspires  the  organs  to  build  up  bodies?  There  we 
are  again  with  a  chain  that  has  but  one  end  —  an 
impossibility. 

Are  the  micro-organisms  built  up  or  pulled  down 
by  other  organisms,  and  so  on  ad  infinitum  ? 

Astronomy  appeals  to  more  persons  than  geology 
does.  The  ground  underfoot  is  a  commonplace  affair 
compared  with  the  midnight  skies.  The  doings  on 
our  little  earth,  even  during  the  lapses  of  geologic 
time,  are  trivial  matters  beside  the  birth  of  worlds 

190 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SCIENCE 

and  systems,  or  their  destruction,  in  the  abyss  of 
sidereal  space.  To  immeasurable  time  is  added  im- 
measurable space.  Cosmic  collisions  and  revolu- 
tions make  terrestrial  upheavals  and  displacements 
like  happenings  in  your  back  yard.  It  is  not  every 
night  that  one's  mind  opens  to  take  in  the  stupen- 
dous spectacle  of  the  starry  sky.  When  in  some 
felicitous  moment  it  does  so,  one  can  but  exclaim. 
Think  of  living  in  a  world  where  any  hour  of  the 
night  the  curtain  may  be  lifted  upon  such  a  scene 
as  that !  —  the  Infinite  baring  its  bosom  to  us,  the 
Eternal  looking  directly  into  our  eyes!  And  how 
much  of  this  emotion,  which  at  times  overwhelms 
us,  we  owe  directly  to  science!  Our  untutored  minds 
are  comparatively  blind  to  such  a  spectacle.  Science 
has  given  us  a  new  vision.  The  book  of  celestial 
revelation  has  really  been  opened  to  us.  What  a 
world  of  new  knowledge  has  the  spectroscope 
opened  to  us !  That  all  this  heavenly  host  is  in  swift 
motion,  going  no  one  knows  whither,  suns  and 
systems  careering  through  space  like  clouds  across 
the  sky,  and  yet,  to  human  eyes,  during  the  historic 
period  appearing  like  fixed  points  in  the  celestial 
vault  —  how  wonderful  is  that ! 

To  descend  from  astronomy  to  physics  seems  like 
a  great  come-down,  but  it  is  only  stooping  from  the 
grandeur  of  orbs  to  the  marvels  of  atoms,  from  the 
infinitely  great  to  the  infinitely  little,  from  seeing  the 
cosmic  laws  operating  in  the  exterior  universe  above, 

191 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

to  seeing  them  repeating  the  same  motions  in  the 
interior  of  matter  at  our  feet.  Physics  reveals  to  us 
what  we  may  truly  call  the  spiritual  side  of  matter; 
when  we  push  our  inquiries  far  enough  we  reach  the 
point  where  gross  substance  becomes  disembodied 
energy,  and  we  find  ourselves  in  a  world  as  intangi- 
ble as  dreamland.  Just  as  we  are  quite  unconscious 
of  the  astronomic  relations  and  movements  of  the 
globe  upon  which  we  live,  so  our  ordinary  lives  do 
not  reveal  to  us  the  play  of  forces,  the  attractions 
and  repulsions  that  are  going  on  in  the  objects 
about  us.  Whoever  has  had  a  glimpse  of  the  Bru- 
nonian  movement  that  is  taking  place  in  matter  all 
about  us,  has  got  some  inkling  of  the  tumult  that 
these  attracting  and  repelUng  forces  set  up. 


XIII 

NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

I.  LIVE  NATURAL  HISTORY 

RECENTLY,  while  reading  Thoreau's  Journal, 
I  wondered  why  his  natural  history  notes,  with 
which  the  Journal  abounds,  interested  me  so  little. 
On  reflection  I  saw  that  it  was  because  he  contented 
himseK  with  making  only  a  bare  statement  of  the 
fact  —  he  did  not  relate  it  to  anything  else  or  inter- 
pret its  meaning.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  bald,  dry, 
natural  history  of  this  kind  in  his  Journal  which  he 
never  wove  together  into  a  living  texture. 

When  he  simply  tells  me,  "I  see  a  downy  wood- 
pecker tapping  on  an  apple-tree  and  hear  when  I 
have  passed  his  sharp,  metallic  note,"  he  has  not 
interested  me  in  the  woodpecker.  He  must  string 
the  bird  on  his  thoughts  in  some  way;  he  must  re- 
late him  to  my  life  or  experience.  The  facts  of  nat- 
ural history  become  interesting  the  moment  they 
become  facts  of  human  history.  AU  the  ways  of  the 
wild  creatures  in  getting  on  in  the  world  interest  us, 
because  we  have  our  ways  of  getting  on  in  the  world. 
All  their  economies,  antagonisms,  failures,  devices, 
appeal  to  us  for  the  same  reason. 

Thoreau's  description  of  the  battle  of  the  ants  in 
"Walden"  is  intensely  interesting  because  it  is  so 

193 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

human.  Valor,  heroism,  stir  us  in  whatever  field 
they  appear. 

As  I  T\Tite,  a  little  chippie  comes  among  the  vines 
on  my  porch  looking  for  nesting-material.  The  old 
spring  impulse  to  increase  and  multiply  is  strong 
upon  her;  she  tugs  at  the  strings  that  tie  the  vines, 
she  scrutinizes  every  branch  for  some  shred  or  bit 
that  will  serve  her  piuT)Ose.  She  interests  me  and  I 
lend  her  a  hand  by  releasing  some  of  the  strings 
which  she  could  not  manage.  I  am  familiar  with  her 
problem,  as  we  all  are.  The  cliff  swallows  daintily 
gathering  mud  at  the  edges  of  a  puddle  in  the  road, 
lifting  their  wings  and  standing  on  tip-toe  as  it 
were,  to  guard  against  soiling  their  plumage,  is  a 
sight  I  always  pause  to  witness. 

Yesterday  I  sat  for  an  hour  in  the  woods  near  a 
dead  maple-stub  in  which  a  flicker  was  excavating 
her  nest.  At  intervals  the  hammering  would  cease, 
and  the  bird,  on  her  guard  against  the  approach  of 
stealthy  enemies,  would  appear  at  the  opening  and 
take  a  long  look.  Finally,  when  she  discovered  me, 
she  came  out  and  went  off  in  the  woods,  and  seemed 
to  have  some  conversation  with  her  mate. 

All  the  industries  and  ways  and  means  among  the 
animals  are  interesting.  A  chipmunk  carrying  nuts 
and  seeds  to  her  den,  a  red  squirrel  cutting  off  the 
chestnut  burrs,  too  impatient  to  wait  for  the  frost 
to  open  them  on  the  trees,  even  a  woodchuck  carry- 
ing dry  grass  and  stubble  into  his  hole  for  a  nest, 

194 


NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

arrest  the  attention.  The  currents  of  Hfe  everywhere, 
the  lampreys  pihng  up  the  stones  in  the  creek-bot- 
tom for  a  nest,  the  muskrat  in  the  fall  building  his 
aquatic  tent  with  mouthfuls  of  sedge-grass,  excite 
our  interest.  In  May  all  the  seed-eating  and  nut- 
eating  creatures  are  hard  put  to  it  to  obtain  food. 
The  red  squirrel  comes  in  front  of  my  door  and  eats 
the  sterile  catkins  of  the  butternut,  and  they  evi- 
dently help  tide  him  over  this  season  of  scarcity. 
One  morning  a  gray  squirrel  in  his  quest  for  a  break- 
fast invaded  the  tree.  The  red  squirrel  soon  spied 
him  and  hustled  him  out  of  it  very  spitefully.  The 
gray  went  undulating  along  the  top  of  the  stone 
wall,  the  picture  of  grace  and  ease,  while  the  red, 
with  tail  kinked,  was  in  hot  pursuit. 

To  find  an  interest  in  natural  history  one  must 
add  something  more  than  the  fact,  one  must  see  the 
meaning  of  the  fact. 

I  feel  no  especial  interest  in  the  kingbird  that 
alights  on  the  telephone-wire  in  front  of  me,  but 
when  he  cHmbs  high  up  in  the  air  and  picks  some 
invisible  insect  from  out  the  apparently  empty 
space,  and  brings  it  back  to  his  perch,  I  am  inter- 
ested. It  was  a  characteristic  act.  The  fox  is  inter- 
esting for  his  cunning,  the  skunk  and  porcupine 
for  their  stupidity.  We  see  in  the  last  two  how  the 
weapons  of  defense  which  Nature  has  so  liberally 
bestowed  upon  them  have  left  no  room  for  the  exi- 
gencies of  life  to  develop  their  wits. 

195 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

The  novel,  the  extraordinary,  the  characteristic, 
the  significant,  always  interest  us.  The  human  bore 
is  a  person  who  has  no  conception  of  what  consti- 
tutes the  interesting;  he  or  she  pours  out  his  own 
private  experiences  upon  us  as  if  they  were  of  the 
same  interest  to  us  as  to  him.  How  prone  we  are  to 
think  our  special  ailments  are  of  universal  interest, 
but  how  rarely  is  this  the  case ! 

One  afternoon  two  cuckoos,  flying  side  by  side, 
passed  my  door.  In  the  morning  they  passed  again 
in  the  same  way  and  going  in  the  same  direction. 
I  became  interested.  I  said,  This  means  business. 
Following  the  course  they  took,  I  went  straight  to 
a  clump  of  red-thorn  trees  a  hundred  yards  distant, 
and  there  was  the  nest,  with  young  more  than  half- 
grown.  They  were  black-billed  cuckoos.  The  mother 
bird  chided  me  in  that  harsh,  guttural,  staccato  note 
of  hers,  and  kept  her  place  on  a  branch  near  the 
nest.  One  of  the  three  young  got  out  of  the  rude 
nest  and  perched  on  a  twig,  holding  its  head  or  neck 
nearly  vertical.  Its  pronounced  stubbly  quills  and 
peculiar  attitude  gave  it  an  unbirdhke  look.  The 
cuckoos  seem  to  time  their  nesting  with  that  of  the 
tent-caterpillars  upon  which  they  feed.  As  the  sup- 
ply of  these  orchard  pests,  and  many  other  similar 
pests,  had  been  nearly  exterminated  by  the  cold, 
wet  May  of  the  previous  year  (1917),  it  would  have 
been  very  interesting  to  know  how  the  birds  made 

196 


NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

up  for  the  deficiency  —  what  was  the  substitute. 
But  I  could  not  find  out. 

Nearly  every  cuckoo's  nest  I  have  happened  to 
find  has  been  on  a  thorn-bush.  Why  do  they  choose 
this  tree?  What  special  enemy  are  they  on  their 
guard  against?  Our  cuckoos  evidently  lay  their  eggs 
at  longer  intervals  than  the  other  birds.  In  the 
present  case  one  of  the  young  was  clearly  several 
days  older  than  its  fellows.  This  fact,  with  the  rude 
skeleton  of  a  nest,  suggests  some  reminiscence  of 
the  habits  of  the  European  cuckoo,  a  parasitical 
bird. 

The  wild  life  around  one  becomes  interesting  the 
moment  one  gets  into  the  current  of  it  and  sees  its 
characteristics  and  by-play.  The  coons  that  come 
down  off  the  mountain  into  my  orchard  for  apples 
on  the  chill  November  nights;  the  fox  that  prowls 
about  near  me  and  wakens  me  by  his  mid,  vulpine 
squall  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning;  the  woodchucks 
burrowing  in  my  meadows  and  eating  and  tangling 
my  clover,  and  showing  sudden  terror  when  they 
spy  me  peeping  over  the  stone  wall  or  coming  with 
my  rifle;  the  chipmunk  leaving  a  mound  of  freshly 
dug  earth  conspicuous  by  the  roadside,  while  his 
entrance  to  his  den  is  deftly  concealed  under  the 
grass  or  strawberry-vines  a  few  yards  away;  the  red 
squirrel  spinning  along  the  stone  wall,  his  move- 
ments apparently  controlled  by  the  electric-like 
waves  of  energy  that  run  along  his  tail  and  impart 

197 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

to  it  a  new  curve  or  kink  every  moment,  or  chipping 
up  my  apples  and  pears  for  the  seed,  and  snickering 
and  cachinnating  as  if  in  derision  when  I  appear 
upon  the  scene  —  how  much  there  is  in  the  Hves  of 
all  these  creatures  that  we  should  find  keenly  inter- 
esting if  we  laiew  how  to  get  at  it ! 

This  rainy  morning  I  saw  two  red  squirrels  make 
a  wild  dash  through  my  garden,  one  in  hot  pursuit 
of  the  other.  A  woven  \vire  fence  was  in  the  way; 
the  fleeing  one  cleared  one  of  the  meshes  neatly,  but 
his  pursuer,  intent  on  his  enemy,  blundered  and 
doubled  up  against  the  obstruction  and  was  delayed 
a  moment  —  how  much  I  wanted  to  know  what  the 
mad  racing  meant,  and  how  it  resulted!  The  red 
squirrel  is  a  perky,  feather-edged  creature,  the  hot- 
test and  most  peppery  rodent  we  have  in  our  woods 
and  orchards,  every  hair  of  him  like  a  live  wire, 
and  many  of  his  movements  are  to  me  quite  unac- 
countable. 

The  search  for  the  elements  of  the  interesting  in 
nature  and  in  life,  in  persons  and  in  things  —  well, 
is  an  interesting  search. 

II.  THE  BARN  SWALLOW 

How  winsome  is  the  swallow!  How  tender  and 
pleasing  all  her  notes !  Is  it  boyhood  that  she  brings 
back  to  us  old  men  who  were  farm  boys  in  our 
youth?  We  saw  the  swallows  play  out  and  in  the 
wide-open  barn-doors  in  haying-time,  their  steel- 

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NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

blue  backs  and  ruddy  throats  glancing  in  the  sun, 
and  their  gentle,  unctuous  wing  gossip  falling  on  our 
ears.  Their  coarse  nests  —  mud  without,  but  feath- 
ers within  —  were  plastered  on  the  rafters  in  the 
peak,  and  when  the  young  were  out  we  saw  them 
perched  in  a  row  on  the  ridge-board,  resting  from 
their  first  flights. 

Now,  as  I  sit  within  my  barn-door  outlook,  the 
same  swallows  are  playing  before  me,  untouched  by 
the  many  long  years  that  have  passed,  giving  the 
impression  of  perpetual  youth;  the  same  tender, 
confiding  calls,  the  same  darting,  wayward  flight, 
the  same  swift  coursings  above  the  shorn  meadows ; 
darlings  of  the  ripe  summer  air,  aerial  feeders, 
reaping  an  invisible  bounty  above  us,  touching  the 
earth  in  quest  of  a  straw  or  a  feather,  or  for  clay 
for  the  nest,  tireless  of  wing,  and  impotent  of  foot, 
as  of  old. 

The  swallow  has  two  words,  one  for  her  friends, 
and  one  for  her  foes,  —  "Wit,  wit,  wit,"  uttered  so 
confidingly  for  the  friends,  and  "Sleet,  sleet,  sleet," 
uttered  sharply  for  the  foes. 

Instead  of  the  ridge-board  of  my  youth,  the  swal- 
low now  has  a  new  perch,  the  telephone  and  tele- 
graph wires  strung  along  the  highway. 

Shall  we  look  upon  the  swallow  as  a  songster? 
Virgil  refers  to  him  as  such,  and  when  he  perches 
upon  the  telephone-wire  in  front  of  my  barn-door 
and  fills  and  refills  his  mouth  with  a  succession  of 

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FIELD  AND  STUDY 

those  squeaking,  smacking,  unctuous  notes,  his 
throat  swelling  and  throbbing,  his  beak  opening  and 
shutting,  glancing  now  to  the  right,  now  to  the  left, 
as  if  to  see  if  his  mate  is  near,  he  looks,  and  we  may 
say  is,  the  songster  that  Virgil  called  him.  The 
performance  lacks  resonance  and  the  fluty  quality 
of  our  regular  song-birds;  it  seems  to  be  made  in  the 
cheeks  or  by  the  softer  parts  of  the  mouth.  The 
beak  is  too  small  and  feeble  to  play  much  of  a  part 
in  its  production.  What  a  waxy,  adhesive  sort  of  a 
sound  it  is!  I  wonder  if  the  swallow  has  the  organ 
called  the  syrinx  common  to  the  regular  song-birds. 
If  one  may  compare  soimd  with  substance  I  should 
say  that  the  swallow's  strain  seems  viscous  and 
turbid  rather  than  liquid  and  translucent  like  that 
of  the  acknowledged  song-birds.  It  is  less  a  musical 
performance  for  its  own  sake  than  a  note  of  self- 
congratulation,  or  of  salutation  to  its  fellows.  The 
bird  does  not  lift  up  his  head  and  pour  out  his  strain 
as  if  for  the  joy  of  singing;  he  delivers  it  as  a 
speaker  delivers  his  discourse,  looking  about  him 
and  laying  the  emphasis  here  and  there  in  a  con- 
fident and  reassuring  tone. 

The  cliff  swallows  and  the  purple  martins  and  bank 
swallows  are  much  more  social  and  gregarious  than 
the  barn  swallows.  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have 
seen  more  than  one  nest  of  the  latter  at  a  time  in 
the  peak  of  the  barn,  though  I  am  told  that  in  New 
England  they  nest  in  colonies.  I  do  not  know  that 

200 


NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

they  migrate  in  large  flocks  like  the  other  swallows. 
I  only  know  that  their  season  with  us  ends  about 
the  20th  of  August,  and  that  they  pass  the  winter  in 
South  America,  where  I  hope  they  have  as  happy  a 
time  as  they  do  here.  If  anything  preys  upon  them 
while  they  are  here  I  do  not  know  what  it  is.  They 
could  laugh  at  the  swiftest  hawk.  They  share  the 
distrust  of  all  birds  toward  the  cat,  though  I  have 
never  known  Puss  to  catch  one.  They  will  swoop 
down  spitefully  if  she  lingers  about  their  haunts, 
and  I  have  seen  her  try  to  strike  them  with  her  paw, 
but  have  never  known  her  to  succeed. 

My  swallows  have  a  pretty  habit,  when  the  day 
is  chilly  and  cloudy  or  stormy,  of  collecting  their 
brood  on  the  little  ledges  or  shelves  above  the  win- 
dows on  the  south  gable  of  the  house  and  feeding 
them  there.  The  young  sit  there  in  a  huddled  row, 
apparently  looking  off  in  the  fields  of  air  where  their 
parents  are  coursing  for  insects,  and  when  they  see 
them  returning,  they  break  out  in  a  happy  and 
grateful  chatter.  The  old  weather-worn  gable  is  for 
the  moment  the  scene  of  a  very  pleasing  and  ani- 
mated incident  in  swallow  life. 

III.  INSECTS 

One  reason  why  all  truthful  and  well-written 
books  upon  insects  interest  us  more  than  the  sub- 
ject would  seem  to  warrant  is  that  no  creature  is 
small  in  print,  or  in  a  book.  Print  is  the  great  equal- 

201 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

izer;  it  magnifies  the  little  and  it  minimizes  the  big. 
When  Fabre  focuses  our  attention  upon  a  wasp,  or 
a  spider,  his  account  engrosses  our  minds  as  com- 
pletely as  an  account  of  a  lion  or  an  elephant  would; 
the  insect  is  singled  out  and  separated  from  the 
thousand  forms  and  entanglements  that  belittle  it 
in  field  and  wood;  it  alone  occupies  the  page.  The 
lion  can  do  no  more.  It  is  precisely  like  putting  the 
flea  under  the  microscope.  The  wars,  loves,  indus- 
tries, activities  of  Fabre's  little  people  are  de- 
scribed in  terms  and  images  which  we  use  in  giving 
an  account  of  man  and  the  greater  beasts.  The 
words  make  them  big.  A  moment  ago  a  minute  red 
insect,  a  mere  moving  point,  revealed  itself  to  my 
eye,  crawling  across  this  sheet  of  paper.  It  was  so 
frail  and  small  that  a  bare  touch  of  my  finger,  as 
my  pocket-glass  showed,  crushed  it.  If  I  could  give 
you  its  life  history,  and  show  its  relation  to  other 
insects,  it  would  stand  out  on  my  page  as  distinctly 
as  if  it  had  been  a  thousand  times  larger :  its  travels, 
its  adventures,  its  birth,  its  death,  would  fill  the 
mind's  eye;  the  reader  would  not  have  to  grope  for  it 
on  my  page,  as  my  eye  did  when  it  discovered  it. 

There  is  no  little  and  no  big  to  nature,  and  there 
is  none  to  the  mind.  We  think  of  the  whirling  solar 
system  as  easily  as  of  a  whirling  top.  The  space  that 
separates  us  from  the  fixed  stars  is  no  more  to  the 
mind  than  the  space  that  separates  us  from  our 
neighbors.  In  like  manner  the  atoms  and  the  mole- 

202 


NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

cules  of  matter,  when  we  have  once  conceived  of 
them,  are  as  easy  of  apprehension  as  are  the  rocks 
and  the  mountains.  The  theory  of  their  nature  and 
activities  figures  as  large  in  our  minds  as  that  of  the 
planetary  systems.  The  stories  of  many  of  Fabre*s 
flies  and  beetles  interest  us  as  much,  and  are  quite 
as  significant,  as  the  story  of  Jack  the  Giant-Killer 
or  of  Robinson  Crusoe.  His  history  of  the  tumble- 
bug  amuses  and  interests  us  as  much  as  that  of  any 
of  Plutarch's  heroes.  But  see  the  tumblebug  there 
in  the  path  or  by  the  roadside,  struggling  with  his 
little  black  globe,  and  he  is  little  more  than  the 
microscopic  spider  on  my  sheet  of  paper.  His  his- 
tory must  be  written  large,  magnified  by  printer's 
type,  before  it  comes  fully  within  our  ken  or  has 
power  to  move  us. 

Fabre's  excursions  afield  are  as  entertaining  and 
suggestive  as  Roosevelt's  excursions  into  the  big- 
game  lands  of  Africa.  With  the  true  artist  size  does 
not  count.  The  same  is  true  of  all  the  minutiae  of 
nature  —  flowers,  insects,  birds,  fishes,  frogs.  We 
are  bound  to  magnify  them  by  describing  them  in 
the  terms  of  our  experience  with  larger  bodies. 

A  wasp  will  capture  its  prey,  paralyze  it,  and  leave 
it  upon  the  ground  and  then  go  a  few  yards  away 
and  dig  its  hole.  Then  it  will  come  back,  look  its 
game  over,  take  its  measure,  and  apparently  con- 
clude that  the  hole  is  too  small,  then  go  back  and 
enlarge  it,  sometimes  making  several  trips  of  this 

203 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

kind.  Its  attitudes  and  procedure  would  lead  you 
to  say  that  the  wasp  was  thinking  and  calculating 
as  a  mechanic  would  under  similar  circumstances. 
In  another  case  the  Sphex  wasp  has  need  to  para- 
lyze the  mouth-parts  of  the  prey  she  is  carrying,  so, 
as  she  bestrides  it  and  drags  it  also  by  its  antennae, 
it  cannot  grip  her  with  its  mandibles  or  impede  her 
progress  by  seizing  upon  blades  of  grass  by  the  way. 
Like  a  skillful  surgeon,  the  wasp  knows  just  what 
to  do,  knows  in  what  part  of  the  head  to  insert  her 
sting  to  produce  the  desired  effect. 

"To  know  everything  and  to  know  nothing," 
says  Fabre,  "according  as  it  acts  under  normal  or 
exceptional  conditions :  that  is  the  strange  antithesis 
presented  by  the  insect  race." 

But  we  must  never  credit  the  insect  with  under- 
standing as  the  result  of  cogitation;  it  knows  noth- 
ing; its  life  is  a  series  of  acts  fatally  linked  together. 
The  mind  of  the  insect  is  the  mind  of  Nature;  it  is 
action  and  not  reflection.  The  plant  does  not  con- 
sciously select  the  elements  in  the  soil  or  the  air 
that  it  needs,  as  we  select;  the  vital  chemistry  in 
the  organism  does  the  selecting.  But  the  moment 
we  name  what  it  is  that  does  the  selecting,  we  are 
caught  in  a  trap  —  we  want  to  know  what  prompted 
it  to  the  act.  We  cannot  find  the  under  side  of  these 
things,  because  there  is  no  under  side,  or  upper  side 
either,  any  more  than  there  is  to  the  earth. 


204 


NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

IV.  THE  DOG 

The  most  wonderful  thing  about  the  dog  is  not 
his  intelHgence,  but  his  capacity  for  loving.  We  can 
call  it  by  no  other  name.  The  more  you  love  your 
dog,  the  more  your  dog  loves  you.  You  can  win  your 
neighbor's  dog  any  time  by  loving  him  more  than 
your  neighbor  does.  He  will  follow  you  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  if  you  love  him  enough.  He  may  become 
so  attached  to  you  that  he  fairly  divines  your 
thoughts,  not  through  his  own  power  of  thought, 
but  through  his  intense  sympathy  and  the  free- 
masonry of  love. 

He  is  the  ideal  companion  because  he  gives  you 
a  sense  of  companionship  without  disturbing  your 
sense  of  solitude.  Your  mind  is  alone,  but  your  heart 
has  company.  He  is  below  your  horizon,  but  some- 
thing comes  up  from  his  life  that  mingles  with  your 
own.  This  friend  walks  with  you,  or  sits  w^th  you, 
and  yet  he  does  not  come  between  you  and  your 
book,  or  between  you  and  the  holiday  spirit  you 
went  out  to  woo.  He  is  the  visible  embodiment  of 
the  holiday  spirit;  he  shows  you  how  to  leave  dull 
care  behind;  he  goes  forth  with  you  in  the  spirit  of 
eternal  youth,  sure  that  something  beautiful  or  curi- 
ous or  adventurous  will  happen  at  any  turn  of  the 
road.  He  finds  no  places  dull,  he  is  alert  with  ex])ect- 
ancy  every  moment. 

In  him  you  have  good-fellowship,  always  on  tap, 

^05 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

as  it  were.  Say  the  word,  and  he  bounds  to  your 
side,  or  leads  the  way  to  the  woods. 

My  dog  enjoys  a  walk  more  than  I  do;  his  nature- 
study  is  quite  as  real  as  mine  is,  though  of  a  totally 
different  kind;  the  sense  of  smell  that  plays  such 
a  part  in  his  excursions,  plays  httle  or  none  in  mine, 
and  the  eye  and  the  mind,  which  contribute  so  much 
to  my  enjoyment,  are  almost  a  blank  with  him. 
He  enjoys  the  open  fire,  too,  and  a  warm,  soft  bed, 
and  a  good  dinner.  All  his  purely  animal  enjoy- 
ments are  as  keen  or  keener  than  mine,  but  has  he 
any  other? 

How  different  his  interest  in  cats  is  from  mine, 
and  in  dogs,  and  in  men !  He  is  not  interested  in  the 
landscape  as  a  whole :  I  doubt  very  much  if  he  sees 
it  at  all;  but  he  is  interested  in  what  the  landscape 
holds  for  him  —  the  woodchuck-hole,  or  the  squir- 
rel's den,  or  the  fox's  trail.  His  life  is  entirely  the 
life  of  the  senses,  and  on  this  ground  we  meet  and 
are  boon  companions. 

If  he  has  any  mind-life,  and  ideas,  if  he  ever  looks 
back  over  the  past,  or  forward  into  the  future,  I  see 
no  evidence  of  it.  When  there  is  nothing  doing  he 
sleeps;  apparently  he  could  sleep  all  the  time,  if 
there  were  nothing  better  going  on. 

V.  WOOD  WAIFS 

Those  little  waifs  from  the  woods  —  chickadees, 
nuthatches,  downy  woodpeckers,  and  brown  creep- 

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NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

ers  —  that  come  in  winter  and  feed  on  the  suet  on 
the  maple  in  front  of  my  window,  how  much  com- 
pany they  are  to  me!  What  thoughts  and  associa- 
tions they  bring  with  them!  What  a  pleasure  to 
have  them  as  my  guests  on  the  old  tree !  The  cold, 
naked,  snow-choked  woods  —  what  can  those  little 
pilgrims  get  there?  I  think  the  nuthatch  touches  me 
the  most  closely;  he  is  pretty  to  look  upon,  and  his 
voice  is  that  of  a  child,  soft,  confiding,  contented,  and 
his  ways  are  all  ways  of  prettiness  —  his  sliding  up 
and  down  and  round  the  tree,  his  pose,  with  head 
standing  out  at  right  angles  to  the  body,  which  en- 
ables him  to  see  the  approach  of  danger  as  readily 
as  if  he  were  perched  on  a  horizontal  limb,  his 
pretty  habit  of  making  a  vise  of  a  crevice  in  the  bark 
to  hold  a  nut.  All  his  notes  and  calls  are  pleasing; 
he  is  incapable  of  a  harsh  sound.  His  call  in  the 
spring  woods  when  we  made  maple  sugar  in  my  boy- 
hood __  "yank,  yank,  yank"  —  how  it  comes  back 
to  me!  Not  a  song,  but  a  token  —  the  spirit  of  the 
leafless  maple-woods  finding  a  voice. 

And  now  for  two  or  three  weeks  I  have  had  an- 
other guest  at  the  free-lunch  table,  the  prettiest 
of  them  all,  the  red-breasted  nuthatch  from  the 
North,  and  he  so  appreciates  my  bounty  that  he 
has  taken  up  his  temporary  abode  here  in  a  wren's 
box  a  few  yards  from  the  lunch-table.  One  cold  day 
I  saw  him  go  into  the  box  and  remain  for  some  time. 
So  at  sundown  I  went  and  rapped  on  his  retreat,  and 

207 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

out  he  came.  He  spends  nearly  half  his  time  at  the 
suet  lunch.  How  pretty  he  is!  and  as  spry  as  a 
cricket;  about  two  thirds  the  size  of  the  white- 
breasted,  he  is  quicker  in  his  movements.  He  glides 
round  the  old  tree  like  a  spirit.  He  does  not  seem 
to  have  the  extra  joint  in  his  neck  that  his  larger 
cousin  has;  he  does  not  point  his  bill  straight  out 
from  the  tree  at  right  angles  to  it,  but  turns  his  head 
more  from  side  to  side.  I  call  him  my  baby  bird,  he 
is  so  suggestive  of  babyhood.  It  is  amusing  to  see 
him  come  down  upon  a  fragment  of  hickory-nut 
when  he  has  wedged  it  into  the  bark.  Each  blow  is 
seconded  by  a  flash  of  his  wings,  as  if  the  tiny  wings 
reinforced  the  head.  One  day  I  put  out  a  handful  of 
cracked  hickory-nuts,  and  he  hustled  them  all  away 
as  fast  as  he  could  carry  them,  hiding  them  here  and 
there,  in  the  vineyard,  in  the  summer-house,  on  the 
woodpile,  whether  with  a  view  to  hoarding  them  for 
future  use,  or  whether  in  obedience  to  some  blind 
natural  instinct,  I  know  not.  The  white-breasted 
does  the  same  thing,  but  I  never  see  either  of  them 
looking  up  their  hidden  stores. 

Two  downy  woodpeckers,  male  and  female,  but 
evidently  not  mated  at  this  season,  come  many 
times  a  day.  The  male  is  a  savage  little  despot;  no 
other  bird  shall  dine  while  he  does.  He  bosses  the 
female,  the  female  bosses  the  big  nuthatch,  the  nut- 
hatch bosses  the  red-breast,  the  red-breast  bosses 
the   chickadees,   the   chickadees   boss   the   brown 

208 


NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

creeper  and  the  juncos.  Not  one  bird  is  hospitable 
to  another.  Each  seems  to  look  upon  the  suet  as  its 
special  find. 

The  more  inclement  the  season,  the  more  our 
sympathy  goes  out  to  our  little  wild  neighbors  who 
face  it  and  survive  it.  The  tracks  of  the  mice  and 
the  squirrels  in  the  winter  woods  have  an  interest 
for  one  they  could  not  possibly  have  in  summer  were 
they  visible  then.  O  frost  and  snow,  where  is  your 
victory?  O  white  and  barren  solitude,  thou  art  not 
all-potent!  How  distinctly  I  remember  where  our 
schoolboy  path  through  the  woods  crossed  an  old 
bush  fence,  and  the  fresh  prints  in  the  snow  of  the 
feet  of  the  red  and  gray  squirrels  to  whom  the  old 
fence  served  as  a  highway.  Those  sharp,  nervous, 
hurried  tracks  and  the  silent,  snow-choked  woods, 
—  silent  except  when  the  frost  pistols  snapped  now 
and  then,  —  how  vivid  the  picture  of  it  all  is  in  my 
memory! 

The  delicate  tracks  of  the  wood  mice  and  their 
tunnels  up  through  the  snow  here  and  there  beside 
our  path  —  they  are  still  unfaded  in  my  mind,  after 
a  lapse  of  more  than  seventy  years.  Occasionally  the 
stealthy  track  of  a  red  fox  would  cross  our  trail  both 
in  field  and  wood  —  never  hurried  like  that  of  the 
mice  and  the  squirrels  and  the  hares,  but  slow  — 
a  watchful,  listening  walker  in  the  midnight  winter 
solitude. 

Wild  life  in  winter  is  like  black  print  on  a  while 

209 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

page  —  he  who  runs  may  read.  In  summer  it  is 
print  on  a  green  or  brown  or  gray  page.  The  Httle 
waifs  from  the  woods  that  come  to  my  door  day 
after  day  in  winter,  so  active  and  cheery  and  brave- 
hearted,  —  heroic  Httle  figures  that  ask  no  favors 
of  me  or  any  one,  yet  who  complacently  help  them- 
selves to  the  proffered  suet  and  nuts,  and  go  their 
way  like  a  merry  gypsy  band,  —  they  little  know 
that  they  are  my  benefactors  as  much  as  I  am 
theirs. 

VI.  AN  INTERESTING  PLANT 

In  our  walks  we  note  the  most  showy  and  beau- 
tiful flowers,  but  not  always  the  most  interesting. 
Who,  for  instance,  pauses  to  consider  that  early 
species  of  everlasting,  called  in  the  botany  Anten- 
naria,  that  grows  nearly  everywhere  by  the  roadside 
and  about  poor  fields?  It  begins  to  be  noticeable  in 
May,  its  whitish  downy  appearance,  its  groups  of 
slender  stalks  crowned  with  a  corymb  of  paperlike 
buds,  contrasting  with  the  fresh  green  of  surround- 
ing grass  or  weeds.  It  is  a  member  of  a  very  large 
family,  the  CompositcBy  and  does  not  attract  one 
by  its  beauty,  but  it  is  interesting  because  of  its 
many  curious  traits  and  habits.  For  instance,  it  is 
dioecious,  that  is  the  two  sexes  are  represented  by 
separate  plants;  and  what  is  more  curious,  these 
plants  are  usually  found  separated  from  each  other 
in  well-defined  groups,  like  the  men  and  women  in 

210 


NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

an  old-fashioned  country  church.  Always  in  groups, 
here  a  group  of  females,  there  a  few  yards  away  a 
group  of  males.  The  females  may  be  known  by  their 
more  slender  and  graceful  appearance  and,  as  the 
season  advances,  by  their  outstripping  the  males 
in  growth.  Indeed,  they  become   real  amazons  in 
comparison  with  their  brothers.  The  staminate,  or 
male,  plants  grow  but  a  few  inches  high;  the  heads 
are  round  and  have  a  more  dusky  or  freckled  ap- 
pearance than  do  the  pistillate;  and  as  soon  as  they 
have  shed  their  pollen  their  work  is  done,  they  are  of 
no  further  use,  and,  by  the  middle  of  May  or  before, 
their  heads  droop,  their  stalks  wither,  and  their  gen- 
eral collapse  sets  in.  Then  the  other  sex,  or  pistillate 
plants,  seem  to  have  taken  a  new  lease  of  life;  they 
wax  strong,  they  shoot  up  with  the  growing  grass 
and  keep  their  heads  above  it;  they  are  alert  and 
active,  they  bend  in  the  breeze,  their  long,  tapering 
flower-heads  take  on  a  tinge  of  color,  and  life  seems 
full  of  purpose  and  enjoyment  with  them.  I  have 
discovered,  too,  that  they  are  real  sun- worshipers; 
that  they  turn  their  faces  to  the  east  in  the  morning 
and  follow  the  sun  in  his  course  across  the  sky  till 
they  all  bend  to  the  west  at  his  going  do'^n.  On  the 
other  hand,  their  brothers  have  stood  stiff  and 
stupid  and  unresponsive  to  any  influence  of  sky 
or  air  so  far  as  I  could  see,  till  they  drooped  and 
died. 

Another  curious  thing  is  that  the  females  seem 

211 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

vastly  more  numerous  —  I  should  say  almost  ten 
times  as  abundant.  You  have  to  hunt  for  the  males; 
the  others  you  see  afar  off.  In  my  usual  five-minute 
morning  walk  to  the  post-oflfice  I  pass  several 
groups  or  circles  of  females  in  the  grass  by  the  road- 
side. I  note  how  they  grow  and  turn  their  faces  sun- 
ward. I  observe  how  alert  and  vigorous  they  are 
and  what  a  purplish  tinge  comes  over  their  mammse- 
shaped  flower-heads,  as  June  approaches.  I  looked 
for  the  males;  to  the  east,  west,  south,  none  could  be 
found  for  hundreds  of  yards.  On  the  north,  about 
two  hundred  feet  away,  I  found  a  small  colony  of 
meek  and  lonely  males.  I  wondered  by  what  agency 
fertilization  would  take  place,  by  insects  or  by  the 
wind.  I  suspected  it  would  not  take  place,  no  insects 
seemed  to  visit  the  flowers,  and  the  wind  surely 
could  not  be  relied  upon  to  hit  the  mark  so  far  off, 
and  from  such  an  unlikely  corner  too.  But  by  some 
means  the  vitalizing  dust  seemed  to  have  been  con- 
veyed. Early  in  June  the  plants  began  to  shed  their 
down,  or  seed-bearing  pappus,  still  carrying  their 
heads  at  the  top  of  the  grass,  so  that  the  breezes 
could  have  free  access  to  them  and  sow  the  seeds 
far  and  wide. 

As  the  seeds  are  sown  broadcast  by  the  wind,  I  was 
at  first  puzzled  to  know  how  the  two  sexes  were 
kept  separate,  and  always  in  little  communities, 
till  I  perceived  what  I  might  have  read  in  the  bot- 
any, that  the  plant  is  perennial  and  spreads  by 

212 


NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

offsets  and  runners  like  the  strawberry.  This  would, 
of  course,  keep  the  two  kinds  in  groups  by  them- 
selves. 

VII.  NATURE  NEAR  HOME 

After  long  experience  I  am  convinced  that  the 
best  place  to  study  nature  is  at  one's  own  home, 
—  on  the  farm,  in  the  mountains,  on  the  plains, 
by  the  sea,  —  no  matter  where  that  may  be.  One 
has  it  all  about  him  then.  The  seasons  bring  to  his 
door  the  great  revolving  cycle  of  wild  life,  floral 
and  faunal,  and  he  need  miss  no  part  of  the  show. 

At  home  one  should  see  and  hear  with  more  fond- 
ness and  sympathy.  Nature  should  touch  him  a  little 
more  closely  there  than  anywhere  else.  He  is  better 
attuned  to  it  than  to  strange  scenes.  The  birds 
about  his  own  door  are  his  birds,  the  flowers  in  his 
own  fields  and  wood  are  his,  the  rainbow  springs  its 
magic  arch  across  his  valley,  even  the  everlasting 
stars  to  which  one  lifts  his  eye,  night  after  night, 
and  year  after  year,  from  his  own  doorstep,  have 
something  private  and  personal  about  them.  The 
clouds  and  the  sunsets  one  sees  in  strange  lands 
move  one  the  more  they  are  like  the  clouds  and  sun- 
sets one  has  become  familiar  with  at  home.  The 
wild  creatures  about  you  become  known  to  you  as 
they  cannot  be  known  to  a  passer-by.  The  traveler 
sees  little  of  Nature  that  is  revealed  to  the  home- 
stayer.  You  will  find  she  has  made  her  home  where 

213 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

you  have  made  yours,  and  intimacy  with  her  there 
becomes  easy.  Famiharity  with  things  about  one 
should  not  dull  the  edge  of  curiosity  or  interest. 
The  walk  you  take  to-day  through  the  fields  and 
woods,  or  along  the  river-bank,  is  the  walk  you 
should  take  to-morrow,  and  next  day,  and  next. 
What  you  miss  once,  you  will  hit  upon  next  time. 
The  happenings  are  at  intervals  and  are  irregular. 
The  play  of  Nature  has  no  fixed  programme.  If  she 
is  not  at  home  to-day,  or  is  in  a  non-committal 
mood,  call  to-morrow,  or  next  week.  It  is  only  when 
the  wild  creatures  are  at  home,  where  their  nests  or 
dens  are  made,  that  their  characteristics  come  out. 
If  you  would  study  the  winter  birds,  for  instance, 
you  need  not  go  to  the  winter  woods  to  do  so;  you 
can  bring  them  to  your  own  door.  A  piece  of  suet 
on  a  tree  in  front  of  your  window  will  bring  chicka- 
dees, nuthatches,  downy  woodpeckers,  brown  creep- 
ers, and  often  juncos.  And  what  interest  you  will 
take  in  these  little  waifs  from  the  winter  woods  that 
daily  or  hourly  seek  the  bounty  you  prepare  for 
them !  It  is  not  till  they  have  visited  you  for  weeks 
that  you  begin  to  appreciate  the  bit  of  warmth  and 
life  they  have  added  to  your  winter  outlook.  The 
old  tree-trunk  then  wears  a  more  friendly  aspect. 
The  great  inhospitable  out-of-doors  is  relenting  a 
little;  the  cold  and  the  snow  have  found  their 
match,  and  it  warms  your  heart  to  think  that  you 
can  help  these  brave  little  feathered  people  to  win 

2U 


NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

the  fight.  Not  a  bit  daunted  are  they  at  the  fearful 
odds  against  them;  the  woods  and  groves  seem  as 
barren  as  deserts,  the  earth  is  piled  with  snow,  the 
trees  snap  with  the  cold  —  no  stores,  no  warmth 
anywhere,  yet  here  are 

"these  atoms  in  full  breath 
Hurling  defiance  at  vast  death." 

They  are  as  cheery  and  active  as  if  on  a  summer 
holiday. 

The  birds  are  sure  to  find  the  tidbit  you  put  out 
for  them  on  the  tree  in  front  of  your  window,  be- 
cause, sooner  or  later,  at  this  season,  they  visit 
every  tree.  The  picking  is  very  poor  and  they  work 
their  territory  over  and  over  thoroughly.  No  tree 
in  field  or  grove  or  orchard  escapes  them.  The  won- 
der is  that  in  such  a  desert  as  the  trees  appear  to  be 
in  winter,  in  both  wood  and  field,  these  Uttle  adven- 
turers can  subsist  at  all.  They  reap  a,  to  us,  invisible 
harvest,  but  the  rough  dry  bark  of  the  trees  is  not 
such  a  barren  waste  as  it  seems.  The  amount  of  ani- 
mal food  in  the  shape  of  minute  insects,  eggs,  and 
larvse  tucked  away  in  cracks  and  crevices  must  be 
considerable,  and,  by  dint  of  incessant  peeping  and 
prying  into  every  seam  and  break  in  the  bark,  they 
get  fuel  enough  to  keep  their  delicate  machinery 
going. 

The  brown  creeper,  with  his  long,  slender,  de- 
curved  bill,  secures  what  the  chickadee,  with  his 

215 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

short,  straight  bill,  fails  to  get.  The  creeper  works 
the  trunk  of  the  tree  from  the  ground  up  in  straight 
or  in  spiral  lines,  disappearing  quickly  round  the 
trunk  if  he  scents  danger.  He  is  more  assimilatively 
colored  than  any  of  his  winter  congeners,  being  like 
a  bit  of  animated  bark  itself  in  form  and  color,  hence 
his  range  and  movements  are  more  limited  and  rigid 
than  those  of  the  woodpeckers  and  chickadees.  The 
creeper  is  emphatically  a  tree-trunk  bird.  His  ene- 
mies are  shrikes  and  hawks,  and  the  quickness  with 
which  he  will  dart  around  the  trunk  or  flash  away 
to  another  trunk  shows  what  the  struggle  for  life 
has  taught  his  race. 

The  range  of  the  nuthatch  is  greater  than  that  of 
the  creeper,  in  that  he  takes  in  more  of  the  branches  of 
the  tree.  He  is  quite  conspicuously  colored  in  his  suit 
of  black,  light  gray,  blue,  and  white,  and  his  power 
of  movement  is  correspondingly  varied.  His  bill  is 
straight  and  heavier,  and  has  an  upward  slant  with 
the  angle  of  the  face  that  must  serve  him  some  useful 
purpose.  He  navigates  the  tree-trunks  up  and  down 
and  around,  always  keeping  an  eye  on  every  source 
of  danger  in  the  air  about  him.  I  have  never  seen 
a  nuthatch  molested  or  threatened  by  any  bird  of 
prey,  but  his  habitual  attitude  of  watchfulness  while 
exploring  the  tree-trunks,  with  head  bent  back  and 
beak  pointing  out  at  right  angles,  shows  clearly  what 
the  experience  of  his  race  has  taught  him.  Danger 
evidently  lurks  in  that  direction,  and  black  and 

216 


NEW  GLEANINGS  IN  OLD  FIELDS 

white  and  blue  are  revealing  colors  in  the  neutral 
woods.  But,  however  much  the  nuthatch  may  be 
handicapped  by  its  coloration,  it  far  outstrips  the 
creeper  in  range  and  numbers.  Its  varied  diet  of  nuts 
and  insects  no  doubt  gives  it  a  more  vigorous  con- 
stitution, and  makes  it  more  adaptive.  It  is  the 
vehicle  of  more  natural  life  and  energy. 

How  winter  emphasizes  the  movements  of  wild 
life !  The  snow  and  the  cold  are  the  white  paper  upon 
which  the  print  is  revealed.  A  track  of  a  mouse,  a 
bird,  a  squirrel,  or  a  fox  shows  us  at  a  glance  how 
the  warm  pulse  of  life  defies  the  embargo  of  winter. 
From  cracks  and  rents  in  the  frigid  zone  which 
creep  down  upon  us  at  this  season  there  issue  tiny 
jets  of  warm  life  which  play  about  here  and  there 
as  if  in  the  heyday  of  summer.  The  woods  snap  and 
explode  with  the  frost,  the  ground  is  choked  with 
snow,  no  sign  of  food  is  there  for  bird  or  beast,  and 
yet  here  are  these  tiny  bundles  of  cheer  and  con- 
tentment in  feathers  —  the  chickadees,  the  nut- 
hatches, and  their  fellows. 


Part  II 
STUDY  NOTES 


Part  II:  Study  Notes 

I 

LITERATURE 

THE  natural  history  of  the  fields  is  usually  as 
welcome  to  the  poet  as  to  the  field  natural- 
ist, even  though  he  does  not  put  it  into  his  song.  It 
was  certainly  welcome  to  Emerson,  and  his  poems 
abound  in  allusions  to  the  life  of  the  fields,  both 
floral  and  faunal.  But  the  poet  is  not  out  in  quest 
of  natural-history  facts;  he  is  in  quest  of  any  facts 
he  can  make  into  poetry.  "A  little  more  than  a 
little"  of  these  things  would  burden  his  lyric.  He 
is  intent  upon  the  play  of  his  own  fancy  and  feel- 
ings over  the  larger  and  more  general  aspects  of  the 
landscape.  Emerson  went  to  the  woods,  not  to 
bring  home  bird  or  botany  lore,  but  to  fetch  the 
word  of  the  wood-god  to  men.  When  he  brought  the 
asters  back  with  him,  each  came  "laden  with  a 
thought,"  but  when  he  brought  back  the  poems  of  the 
"Humble-Bee"  and  "The  Titmouse,"  he  brought 
back,  in  each  case,  a  bit  of  sound  natural  history, 
animated  and  expanded  with  genuine  poetic  emo- 
tion. His  "May-Day"  is  rife  with  close  observation 
of  nature  at  this  season,  but  it  is  not  burdened  with 
the  details. 

The  poet  uses  the  facts  of  natural  history  and  of 

221 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

science  generally  in  a  large  and  free  way,  not  to 
convey  information,  but  to  stimulate  the  poetic 
sense.  His  treatment  is  synthetic  and  not  analytic. 
Every  cloud  that  floats  above  him  "writes  a  letter 
in  his  book,"  but  these  things  are  not  ends  in  them- 
selves, they  are  but  the  colors  upon  his  palette. 
The  picture  he  paints  is  not  in  nature,  but  in  his 
own  soul.  He  uses  objects  in  nature  to  figure  forth 
a  mood  of  the  soul,  not  for  the  flower's  or  the  bird's 
sake,  but  to  fathom  the  sense  of  solitude  in  the 
spirit.  Such  poems  express  a  sympathy  with  nature 
that  was  quite  alien  to  the  ancient  mind. 


Shall  we  ever  again  have  a  group  of  poets  who  can 
deal  with  nature  in  the  large,  virile  way  in  w^hich 
some  of  our  older  poets  did,  giving  us  the  same  sense 
of  reality,  stirring  the  same  universal  emotions  of 
our  common  humanity,  portraying  what  we  all  see 
and  feel  but  cannot  all  express,  as  Bryant  did  in  his 
"Waterfowl,"  and  several  other  poems,  as  Emer- 
son did  in  his  "Humble-Bee"  and  "Titmouse,"  as 
Burns  did  with  his  "Mouse,"  as  Wordsworth  did  in 
the  "Cuckoo"  and  the  "Daffodils"  and  in  scores 
of  poems,  as  T^Tiitman  did  in  numerous  passages 
in  his  large,  flowing  lines,  as  Trowbridge  did  in 
his  "Pewee,"  and  "Mid-Summer,"  and  as  Celia 
Thaxter  did  in  her  "Sandpiper"? 

I  recall  but  one  of  our  current  poets  who  has 
touched  a  nature  theme  in  the  old,  felicitous,  and, 

222 


i  LITERATURE 

at  the  same  time,  truthful  way,  and  that  is  Robert 
Loveman  in  his  immortal  "Rain  Song." 

The  school  of  younger  poets,  with  their  free  verse, 
turn  perpetually  to  nature  themes,  but  the  large, 
free  handling  of  them  is  not  their  gift.  Neither  is  it 
the  gift  of  the  poets  who  adliere  to  the  old  conven- 
tional form  of  verse.  They  are  pretty  and  refined, 
they  are  often  subtle  and  fluent,  but  there  is  not  a 
particle  of  "original  sin"  in  any  of  them  —  nothing 
that  gives  flavor  and  reality;  it  has  all  been  bleached 
out;  they  are  a  by-product  of  a  bookish  and  arti- 
ficial age;  they  are  skilled  craftsmen,  but  not  poets; 
they  are  what  is  left  for  the  making  of  poets  after 
the  first-hand  grit  and  energy  of  the  race  has  been 
drawn  off  by  the  demands  of  a  great  practical  indus- 
trial age.  These  pale,  thin,  anaemic  versifiers  are  the 
left-overs. 

§ 

The  secret  of  good  writing  is  not  in  the  choice  of 
words;  it  is  in  the  use  of  words,  their  combinations, 
their  contrasts,  their  harmony  or  opposition,  their 
order  of  succession,  the  spirit  that  animates  them. 
A  writer  upon  Nature  may  expatiate  on  her  beau- 
ties, but  can  he  show  us  her  beauties  in  simple  lan- 
guage? Can  he  in  plain  words  make  us  feel  the 
poetry  in  the  morning,  or  in  the  twilight?  Just  to 
name  objects  in  nature,  like  the  dew,  the  rain,  the 
snow,  a  summer  morning,  a  clover-field,  the  mid- 
night skies,  the  clouds,  the  brook,  is  enough,  tlirough 

'  223 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

the  power  of  association,  to  fill  the  mind  with 
pleasing  emotions. 

A  writer  may  use  pure  English  and  yet  his  pro- 
duction be  flat  and  insipid.  No  matter  what  words 
a  fourth-  or  fifth-rate  poet  uses,  his  verse  will  be 
fourth-  or  fifth-rate.  Take  any  great  piece  of  prose 
and  break  it  up  into  its  word  elements,  and  see  if 
you  can  find  the  secret  of  its  power  or  beauty.  The 
words  "beauty"  and  "power"  may  not  be  in  it, 
and  yet  it  may  have  both  these  qualities.  The  dif- 
ference between  a  quartz  pebble  and  a  precious 
stone  is  not  one  of  elements,  but  one  of  different 
arrangement  of  the  same  elements.  Both  the  dia- 
mond and  a  lump  of  charcoal  are  made  up  of  carbon 
molecules,  but  behold  the  difference ! 

"  In  good  writing  words  become  one  with  things," 
says  Emerson.  They  give  a  sense  of  reality,  the  mind 
feels  them  as  tangible  things.  Of  course,  words  that 
stand  for  specific,  concrete  things  come  home  to  us 
in  a  way  that  general  and  abstract  words  do  not. 
Take  this  quatrain  of  Emerson's :  — 

"Cast  the  bantling  on  the  rocks. 
Suckle  him  with  the  she-wolf's  teat. 
Wintered  with  the  hawk  and  fox, 
Power  and  speed  be  hands  and  feet." 

How  vivid  and  concrete  the  language !  Certainly 
the  words  are  one  with  things. 


224 


LITERATURE 


Mr.  Perry,  in  his  "Life  of  Whitman,"  does  not 
bring  out  Whitman's  main  characteristics  very 
clearly  —  the  fact  that  he  stood  so  entirely  upon 
ground  of  his  owti,  was,  in  fact,  a  new  type  of  man 
appearing  in  literature,  and  that  he  proved  and 
justified  himself  upon  those  new  grounds. 

Mr.  Perry  has  to  chip  away  a  good  deal  of  Whit- 
man to  make  him  conform  to  the  accepted  academic 
models,  and  the  process  is  like  shearing  Samson  of 
his  locks  —  his  strength  and  significance  are  gone. 
If  one  fails  to  see  that  here  is  the  democratic  spirit 
assuming  almost  colossal  proportions,  taking  pos- 
session of  the  world  in  its  own  right,  gay,  proud, 
nonchalant,  but  loving  and  all-inclusive,  reverent 
toward  the  past,  receptive  toward  the  present,  con- 
fident toward  the  future,  taking  science  at  its  word 
that  the  celestial  laws  are  operative  here  underfoot 
as  well  as  up  there  in  the  sky,  taking  religion  at  its 
word  that  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world  is  love 
and  that  man  is  divine  inside  and  out,  writing 
his  poems  from  the  inspiration  of  these  ideas,  and 
bringing  the  democratic  standard,  the  standard  of 
the  fundamental  equality  of  all  men,  to  bear  upon 
all  things,  and  thereby  making  in  a  sense  a  new 
scale  of  human  values  —  unless,  I  say,  one  sees  this 
in  Whitman,  one  misses  the  main  thing.  It  seems  to 
me  almost  an  impertinence  to  compare  him  to 
Rousseau,  or  Wordsworth,  or  our  owti  Whittier, 

225 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

because  his  spirit  and  aim  are  so  foreign  to  theirs. 
The  spirit  of  these  men  was  not  inclusive  but  exclu- 
sive; not  one  of  them  could  say:  — 

**My  spirit  has  passed  in  compassion  and  determination  around 
the  whole  earth; 
I  have  looked  for  equals  and  lovers  and  found  them  ready 
for  me  in  all  lands." 

Whittier  was  a  democratic  poet  within  certain 
narrow  limits,  as  are  most  of  our  poets,  but  as  an 
enclosure  of  his  country,  and  of  the  modern  world, 
he  is  a  child  compared  with  Whitman.  The  poets 
just  named  are  poets  of  the  select,  the  refined,  the 
exceptional.  Whitman  is  the  poet  of  the  All.  But 
all  is  not  beautiful  or  poetic.  Granted.  Yet  Whitman 
included  it  just  the  same,  and,  what  is  more,  he 
gives  you  the  impression  of  being  adequate  to  in- 
clude it.  It  does  not  stagger  him  or  swamp  him;  his 
spirit  dominates  it.  Had  he  not  loaded  his  work  with 
material  which  in  itself  does  not  awaken  the  poetic 
thrill,  he  could  not  have  given  this  impression  of 
all-inclusiveness  and  of  cosmic  power. 

Whitman's  catalogues,  and  his  affiliations  w4th 
what  is  considered  unclean,  would  have  destroyed 
Whittier,  because  Whittier's  spirit  was  not  ade- 
quate to  bear  this  burden.  Nothing  but  \Miitman's 
tremendous  egoism,  and  the  power  to  keep  his  own 
spirit  always  to  the  front,  enabled  him  to  stand  up 
under  the  load  he  assumed. 

This  want  of  selection  in  Whitman,  which  Mr. 

226 


LITERATURE 

Perry,  like  the  other  critics,  makes  much  of,  was  a 
vital  part  of  Whitman's  entire  scheme.  The  question 
is  not,  Does  he  transmute  his  common  material  into 
the  gold  of  poetry?  but,  Has  he  enough  gold  in  his 
vaults  to  redeem  it?  Is  he  master  of  it?  What  would 
clog  a  brook  is  lost  in  a  river.  Had  Whitman  at- 
tempted to  prettify  these  things,  to  dress  them  up 
in  the  habiliments  of  rhyme  and  poetic  finery,  that 
would  have  put  another  face  on  his  enterprise. 

The  most  precious  thing  any  imaginative  work 
can  give  us  is  the  impression  of  a  large,  loving,  and 
powerful  personality.  I  care  not  what  the  medium  is 
if  it  gives  us  this  impression.  Is  not  greatness  of 
soul  above  all  else?  Plenty  of  poets  give  us  the  im- 
pression of  the  refined,  the  pretty,  the  gentle,  the 
devout,  but  how  many  give  us  the  impression  of 
the  great,  the  powerful,  the  godlike?  Of  the  cosmic 
and  the  all-inclusive,  Wliitman  alone  among  poets 
gives  us  the  impression. 

Were  the  final  impression  which  he  makes  that  of 
the  uncouth,  the  coarse,  the  half-cultured,  or  the 
merely  big,  how  long,  think  you,  could  he  hold  the 
attention  of  thoughtful  minds?  Not  long,  surely. 
This  was  the  first  impression  he  made  upon  John 
Addington  Symonds.  "But  in  course  of  a  short 
time,"  he  says,  *' Whitman  delivered  my  soul  of 
these  debilities";  that  is,  brought  him  a  stimulus 
and  a  message  which  are  never  the  gift  of  the  coarse 
and  the  uncouth. 

227 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

The  purely  academic  mind  always  gets  the  im- 
pression of  uncouthness  from  Whitman,  and,  if 
there  are  not  native  and  original  gifts  back  of  the 
academic  veneer,  as  there  were  in  Symonds,  gets 
no  farther. 

You  may  refuse  to  call  Whitman's  work  poetry, 
but  it  is  not  prose.  His  attitude  toward  his  subject 
and  toward  his  reader  is  not  that  of  the  prose-writer. 
If  is  more  intimate  and  personal,  more  symbolical 
and  representative.  It  is  that  of  the  bard  and 
prophet,  if  not  of  the  poet.  The  prose-writer  is  bent 
on  elucidation,  argumentation,  description,  or  the 
conveyance  of  knowledge.  Whitman's  aim  is  none  of 
these.  The  personality  of  the  man  is  immanent  in 
all  Whitman's  best  wrrk;  he  gives  himself.  His  spirit 
is  creative,  primary,  elemental.  He  identifies  himself 
with  men  and  things,  and  they  speak  through  him 
instead  of  his  standing  apart  from  them  and  merely 
portraying  them  or  contemplating  them  or  singing 
of  them.  The  poets  quicken  one's  pulse  by  their 
fine  descriptions  and  imaginary  touches.  Whitman 
speaks  in  the  spirit  of  Nature  as  a  whole;  not  beauty 
merely  is  his  aim,  but  love,  power. 


I  return  to  Wordsworth  again  and  again,  year 
after  year.  His  privacies  with  Nature,  his  commun- 
ing with  his  own  soul,  through  her  shows  and  ob- 
jects, appeal  to  me.  This  modern  devout  feeling 
toward  Nature,  as  distinguished  from  the  ancient 

228 


LITERATURE 

pagan  feeling  of  simple  fear  and  wonder,  we  arc  all 
sharers  of.  It  is  the  aftermath  of  the  human  mind 
that  follows  the  decay  of  the  old  religious  forms  and 
creeds.  Wordsworth's  natural  religion  was  the  real- 
ity with  him;  his  Church  of  England  religion  was 
only  a  form. 

I  return  to  Whitman  again  and  again,  year  after 
year,  not  for  his  privacies  with  Nature,  but  for  the 
sweep  of  his  mind  and  the  power  of  his  personality. 
His  tremendous  humanism  and  large  style  always  re- 
fresh me.  He  makes  me  ashamed  of  our  partiahties 
and  refinements  and  false  modesties.  His  frankness 
and  directness  are  as  appealing  as  his  unconvention- 
alities.  His  candor  equals  his  charity,  his  democracy 
matches  his  patriotism.  He  does  not  distil  the  es- 
sence of  wild  Nature  for  me  as  Wordsworth  does  — 
Nature  transmuted  into  a  kind  of  intellectual  sen- 
timent; he  distils  nothing,  he  confronts  me  with 
the  immeasurable  universe  and  makes  me  feel  how 
the  ground  I  walk  upon  is  a  part  of  the  solar  system. 
It  is  not  Nature  perfumed  with  literature  that  he 
gives  me,  but  something  much  nearer  the  breath  of 
Nature  as  she  appears  on  the  shore,  the  plains,  the 
mountain-tops. 

There  is  no  direct  savor  of  science  in  this  pas- 
sage :  — 

"I  open  ray  scuttle  at  night  and  see  the  far-sprinkled  systems. 
And  all  I  see  multiplied  as  high  as  1  can  cipher  edge  but  the 
rim  of  the  farther  systems. 

229 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

"Wider  and  wider  they  spread,  expanding,  always  expanding. 
Outward  and  outward  and  forever  outward. 

"My  sun  has  his  sun  and  round  him  obediently  wheels. 
He  joins  with  his  partners  a  group  of  superior  circuit. 
And  greater  sets  follow,  making  specks  of  the  greatest  inside 
them." 

That  is  all  good  astronomy,  and  it  is  all  good 
poetry. 

Whitman's  personality  is  always  the  dominant 
fact.  He  assimilates  and  transmutes  science  as  easily 
as  anything  else.  His  tremendous  egoism  cannot  be 
obscured  or  thwarted.  It  enables  him  to  identify 
himself  with  all  objects  and  persons  without  suffer- 
ing the  least  embarrassment  or  degradation.  While 
other  poets  aim  to  write  beautiful  poems  by  selec- 
tion and  elaboration,  Whitman  aims  to  write  poems 
of  power  by  including  all  and  elaborating  nothing. 
While  other  poets  seize  upon  some  special  phase  of 
Nature,  and  make  much  of  that.  Whitman  gives 
the  spirit  of  Nature  in  her  totality.  Many  persons 
who  are  moved  by  a  flower,  a  bird,  a  sunset,  or  a 
shell  on  the  beach,  are  unmoved  by  the  midnight 
skies  and  the  larger  elemental  displays.  Vastness, 
power,  universality,  are  Whitman's  characteristics 
as  a  poet.  While  touching  the  highest  point  of  mod- 
ern knowledge  and  humanitarianism,  on  the  one 
hand,  he  reaches  to  the  antique  simplicity  and  reli- 
gious fervor  on  the  other.  He  is  prophetic  and  crea- 
tive, while  he  is  Darwinian   and  democratic.  His 

230 


LITERATURE 

subject-matter  is  the  universe.  He  says  his  book  is  a 
poem  of  himself;  it  is  himself  in  relation  to  the  whole 
of  life  and  of  Nature.  He  is  no  more  a  gatherer  of 
flowers  or  of  shells  upon  the  beach  than  a  rhapsod- 
ist  of  the  ocean  or  a  worshiper  of  the  stars;  no 
more  a  lover  of  men  than  a  disciple  of  the  gods; 
no  more  a  countryman  than  a  "lover  of  populous 
pavements  ";  no  more  a  lover  of  solitude  than  a 
lover  of  the  mart.  He  is  always  large,  he  always 
gives  one  a  sense  of  mass  and  magnitude,  of  move- 
ment and  power. 

As  an  artist  he  does  not  loiter,  he  does  not  elab- 
orate, he  does  not  finish  specimens;  he  showers 
them,  as  he  says,  by  exhaustless  laws,  continuously, 
as  Nature  does.  He  is  always  fluid  and  flowing,  al- 
ways central,  never  baldly  intellectual  or  reflective 
or  studiously  subtle.  He  does  not  savor  of  books  or 
of  schools.  He  is  not  a  product  of  culture  and  of 
generations  of  speaking  and  writing  men,  as  Emer- 
son is ;  hence  he  has  little  of  the  peculiar  Emersonian 
aroma  of  scholars  and  scholarly  traditions,  or  of 
the  distilled  and  concentrated  essence  of  the  wild 
and  the  secluded,  which  in  certain  moods  is  so  wel- 
come to  us.  His  "Leaves"  do  not  lure  us  to  the 
woods  or  to  the  brookside,  but  rather  to  the  sea- 
shore or  to  the  mountain-top.  He  does  not  make 
you  conscious  of  his  craft;  he  fills  you  with  the 
feeling  of  himself. 

In  the  modern  nature  poets,  such  as  Wordsworth 

231 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

and  Emerson,  we  get  the  thrill  of  the  idyllic,  or  the 
charm  of  the  pastoral.  In  Whitman  we  get  the  lift 
and  sweep  of  the  epic,  and,  at  times,  the  stir  of  the 
dramatic.  We  may  not  like  him,  —  not  everybody 
can  endure  a  plunge  in  the  surf,  —  but  we  should 
recognize  his  power,  and  the  genuineness  of  his  in- 
spiration, and  that  our  dislike  of  him  comes  more 
from  our  indoor  and  bookish  habits,  our  over- 
refinements,  our  artificial  standards,  our  anaemic 
blood,  than  from  any  want  of  the  truly  poetic  in  his 
"Leaves." 

His  attitude  toward  his  subject-matter  is  always 
that  of  the  creative  artist,  never  that  of  the  prose- 
writer,  or  the  preacher,  or  the  speculative  philoso- 
pher. He  gives  nothing  as  duties,  as  he  himself  says, 
but  as  living  impulses;  he  gives  nothmg  as  finished 
poetry,  but  as  the  soul  and  suggestion  of  poetry. 
His  book  is  not  a  temple  of  art,  builded  as  the  great 
architects  of  verse,  from  Virgil  to  Tennyson,  built 
it,  but  is  the  work  of  the  creative  and  assimilative 
artistic  spirit  where  life  is  unloosed  and  we  breathe 
the  air  of  primal  and  universal  nature.  To  describe 
him  as  merely  rude  and  hirsute  and  untaught  is  to 
miss  the  mark  entirely;  he  is  elemental  and  prim- 
itive, but  he  is  orbic  and  inclusive.  Neither  do  the 
epithets  "robust,"  "athletic,"  "masculine,"  and 
the  like  fitly  describe  him.  He  is  more  and  better 
than  these;  he  is  tender,  yearning,  motherly. 


232 


LITERATURE 


It  has  been  said  that  "Milton  is  the  most  Hterary 
man  in  literature."  I  should  say  the  greatest  purely 
literary  man  in  English  literature.  Virgil  matches 
him  in  Latin  literature.  Who  matches  him  in 
French?  By  a  literary  man,  in  the  sense  here  re- 
ferred to,  I  suppose  we  mean  one  whose  primary 
interests  are  in  literature  rather  than  in  men  and 
things  —  the  product  of  books,  of  the  schools. 
Shakespeare  was  not  literary,  nor  Scott,  nor 
Wordsworth,  nor  Carlyle,  nor  Burns,  nor  Emerson. 
Emerson's  interest  in  poetry  was  great,  was  almost 
supreme,  and  yet  he  was  not  literary  in  the  sense 
that  Arnold  was  or  that  Lowell  was.  He  again  was 
a  poet  and  prophet  combined,  or  a  critic  and  a  seer 
combined;  a  preacher  who  hated  preaching  and  the 
church,  a  poet  thrilled  by  the  grandeur  of  the  moral 
law,  an  essayist  whose  central  theme  was  God  and 
Nature,  a  critic  who  saw  literary  values  through  his 
religious  sense,  a  philosopher  who  thought  in  tropes 
and  symbols,  a  naturalist  who  translated  his  natural 
history  into  the  language  of  the  spirit. 

§ 

How  prone  we  are  to  speak  of  style  as  something 
apart  from  the  man,  and  to  compare  it  to  a  garment 
that  can  be  put  off  and  on!  whereas  style  is  a  quality 
of  mind,  and  either  a  man  has  it  or  he  has  it  not. 
It  is  as  inseparable  from  the  man  himself  as  his 
temperament  or  complexion.  A  writer  has  style  if 

233 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

his  page  is  vital  and  gives  the  impression  of  an 
original  and  attractive  personality.  Again  we  speak 
of  the  style  and  the  thought  as  being  separable,  but 
they  are  one  as  the  line  of  a  pearl  is  one  with  the 
substance.  There  is  a  world  of  good  writing  which 
yet  differs  from  literature  as  a  tree  differs  from  a 
pile  of  lumber.  Lucidity  as  a  requisite  of  style  cer- 
tainly stands  first,  and  next  that  which  is  insep- 
arable from  it,  simplicity.  In  my  own  case  I  try  to 
get  language  out  of  the  way  as  far  as  possible,  and 
to  put  my  mind  directly  to  that  of  my  reader. 
Hence,  when  I  have  been  told  that  my  page  does 
not  seem  like  writing,  that  it  offers  no  resistance, 
and  so  on,  I  feel  highly  complimented.  I  would 
have  it  fit  the  mind  as  water  fits  the  hand.  Deliver 
me  from  language  as  such,  from  fine  phrases;  in 
short,  from  conscious  style.  The  author  must  not 
know  that  he  is  writing,  but  seem  only  to  be  speak- 
ing. The  moment  he  knows  he  is  writing,  his  words 
begin  to  rattle  and  sound  hollow.  I  do  not  want  to 
hear  or  see  or  feel  the  machinery.  I  want  the  perfect 
product.  I  want  the  writer  to  be  so  intent  upon  what 
he  is  saying,  so  single  of  purpose,  and  so  honest  with 
his  reader,  that  he  takes  no  thought  of  his  style  as 
such;  he  takes  thought  only  of  how  to  convey  his 
meaning  in  the  clearest,  freshest,  most  direct  and 
vivid  manner.  O  to  be  natural,  to  have  the  quality 
of  freshness  and  inevitableness,  of  the  unlabored, 
the  spontaneous !  To  be  brisk  and  not  flippant,  to  be 

234 


LITERATURE 

original  and  not  strained,  to  be  smooth  and  not 
polished,  to  be  suggestive  and  not  obscure  and  in- 
definite, to  be  bright  and  not  brilliant,  to  have  wit 
without  the  sting,  to  have  humor  without  the  guf- 
faw, to  have  learning  without  pedantry,  to  have 
joy  without  hilarity,  —  "sober  on  a  fund  of  joy,"  as 
Emerson  says,  —  to  be  serious  and  not  heavy,  to 
teach  and  not  moralize,  to  be  lucid  and  not  sui)er- 
ficial,  to  be  eloquent  and  not  rhetorical,  to  have 
common  sense  and  not  be  commonplace  —  this  is 
my  prayer. 


Whoever  can  bring  to  scientific  subjects  a  free 
play  of  mind  and  find  room  in  them  for  feeling  and 
imagination,  can  make  literature  of  them.  Astron- 
omy, geology,  botany,  chemistry,  physics,  all  lend 
themselves  to  literary  treatment  to  the  born  liter- 
ary mind.  Their  exact  facts  may  be  made  flexible 
and  grouped  in  a  picturesque  manner,  and  invested 
with  the  atmosphere  of  poetry  and  romance. 


I  think  we  all  in  a  measure  share  the  feelings  of 
those  who  w^ould  rather  read  an  account  of  an  event 
or  a  description  of  an  object  by  a  great  WTiter  than 
to  see  the  object  or  be  present  at  the  event  itself. 
To  persons  with  the  literary  and  artistic  sense  highly 
developed,  the  reality  is  generally  less  pleasing  than 
a  picture  of  the  reality. 

It  is  said  that  all  martyrdom  looks  mean  in  the 

235 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

act.  I  had  rather  read  "Macbeth"  than  to  have 
been  present  at  the  scenes  upon  which  it  is  founded. 
The  difference  between  a  photograph  and  a 
painting  is  an  important  difference,  not  so  much  a 
difference  of  fact  as  a  difference  of  spirit  and  atmos- 
phere. The  artist  does  something  to  his  facts,  the 
photographer  does  not.  Facts  that  have  passed 
through  the  personality  of  an  artist  meet  with  a 
change;  a  touch  of  the  ideal  has  been  added;  there 
is  a  novelty,  a  beguiling  strangeness;  the  spirit  of 
romance  has  breathed  upon  it  and,  without  blurring 
its  realism,  has  imparted  a  charm  which  the  reality 
did  not  have.  The  literary  artist  goes  to  nature  or 
to  human  life  for  his  material,  but  unless  he  does 
something  to  that  material,  something  analogous 
to  that  which  the  bee  does  to  the  nectar  which  she 
gathers  from  the  flowers  before  she  stores  it  as 
honey,  it  will  be  unworthy  the  name  of  literature. 
It  may  have  value  as  science,  or  as  statistics,  but 
not  as  literature.  The  bee  concentrates  the  sweet 
water  which  she  gathers  from  the  flowers  and  adds 
a  minute  drop  from  her  own  body  in  the  shape  of 
formic  acid  before  she  achieves  honey.  The  writer 
who  goes  to  the  field  or  the  street  or  the  mart  or 
the  trenches  for  his  subject-matter  will  not  achieve 
literature  by  merely  a  faithful  transcript  of  what  he 
sees  and  feels  —  his  matter  must  be  touched  to  the 
finer  issues  of  the  imagination.  Much  of  that  which 
passes  for  realism  in  current  literature  is  merely  the 

236 


LITERATURE 

crude  material  of  literature;  it  has  not  met  with  the 
change  to  which  I  refer.  Fidelity  to  the  fact  is  not 
enough;  fidelity  to  the  ideal  is  also  necessary. 

When  the  sap  of  the  tree  rises  from  the  roots  to 
the  leaves,  it  is  crude  sap;  when  it  has  been  touched 
by  the  sun  through  the  leaves  and  flows  do\NTiward 
to  build  up  the  tree  and  its  fruit,  it  is  another  mat- 
ter. When  our  experiences  and  observations  have 
been  touched  and  sublimated  by  emotional  and 
ideal  nature,  they  become  another  matter,  too. 
Who  would  not  read  of  a  street  brawl,  or  a  scene  in 
a  gambler's  den  by  a  great  imaginative  writer, 
rather  than  witness  the  reality?  Who  would  not 
rather  meet  Falstaff  or  Hamlet  or  Lear  in  the 
pages  of  Shakespeare  than  in  the  street  or  the  house? 

I  confess  I  cannot  read  the  stories  of  our  new 
writers  without  being  disturbed  by  their  bald,  hard 
realism.  Their  tales  of  frontier  life  are  almost  as 
repulsive  as  the  reality.  With  all  the  wit  and  the 
accurate  character-drawing,  their  impact  upon  my 
mind  is  not  that  of  literature,  but  of  naked  reality. 
A  bar-room  brawl  is  a  bar-room  brawl  and  nothing 
more,  repulsive  in  the  beholding  and  distasteful  in 
the  reading,  without  a  touch  of  that  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land  —  the  touch  which  past 
events  have  in  our  memories.  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  say  boldly  that  there  is  no  art  or  literature  until 
the  matter  has  been  breathed  upon  by  the  great 
god  of  romance.  If  I  confess  I  had  rather  have  a 

237 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

photograph  of  my  friend  than  a  painting,  it  is  that 
the  photograph  brings  him  nearer.  The  painter  will 
disguise  him  a  Httle.  Would  not  one  rather  have  a 
photograph  of  any  of  the  great  characters  of  the 
past,  or  of  his  own  great-great-grandfather,  than 
a  picture  of  him  by  any  portrait-painter?  One 
would  like  to  know  exactly  how  he  looked,  the 
naked  reality.  Yet  a  painting  of  my  native  hills 
pleases  me  more  than  a  photograph,  because  I  sup- 
pose the  question  of  color  and  atmosphere  plays 
such  a  part,  while  in  the  face  of  your  friend  expres- 
sion plays  the  main  part  and  color  a  very  minor  one. 
The  camera  has  no  imagination,  no  sentiment,  and 
no  memory,  and  its  literal  truth  is  not  art;  but  for 
that  very  reason,  it  gives  us  the  nude  reality  when 
we  wish  it  most.  Our  own  memories  and  feelings  do 
the  rest. 

Here  we  come  upon  ticklish  ground  and  must 
choose  our  words.  I  have  no  sympathy  with  those 
readers  who,  for  instance,  had  rather  read  Audu- 
bon's account  of  a  bird  than  see  and  hear  the  bird 
itself,  or  read  a  great  historian's  description  of  a 
battle  than  to  have  witnessed  it.  The  great  and  the 
momentous  things  in  life  one  wants  to  see;  in  the 
absence  of  that  experience,  then  an  account  of  them 
by  a  great  writer.  In  all  cases  the  written  descrip- 
tion will  give  one  a  kind  of  pleasure  that  the  real- 
ity could  not  give,  an  sesthetic  pleasure,  but  the 
reality  drives  deeper  and  is  unforgettable.  You  for- 

238 


LITERATURE 

get  a  description  of  Niagara,  but  you  do  not  forget 
the  vision  of  it.  As  we  cannot  always  see  the  reality, 
but  must  read  about  it  in  innumerable  books,  we 
want  the  reading  to  spare  us  the  triteness  and  dis- 
agreeableness  that  we  are  bound  to  get  more  or  less 
of  from  the  reality. 

I  am  not  trying  to  discount  the  real  thing;  we  go 
around  the  world  to  see  real  things ;  I  am  only  try- 
ing to  say  that  when  we  aim  to  make  literature  or 
art  out  of  them,  we  must  invest  them  with  a  feeling, 
an  atmosphere,  that  the  literal  fact  cannot  give; 
we  must  work  some  magic  upon  the  facts. 

You  may  put  into  your  picture  what  cannot  be 
found  in  nature,  but  I  must  not  be  able  to  put  my 
finger  on  it.  It  must  be  your  own  spirit,  your  owti 
atmosphere.  It  must  be  in  the  tone,  in  the  quality 
—  something  that  will  make  me  want  to  go  to  that 
place  and  live  there  always.  Your  elms  must  be  elms 
and  your  maples,  maples,  and  your  rocks,  rocks, 
but  there  must  be  a  light  upon  them  that  never  was 
upon  sea  or  land. 

Who  could  paint  for  me  the  old  homestead  with 
the  charm  it  has  in  my  memory,  not  changing  a 
single  feature,  but  touching  every  feature  with  the 
charm  and  pathos  with  which  it  haunts  me? 

Pass  a  landscape  through  the  soul  of  a  great  artist 
and  it  is  in  a  measure  transfigured,  while  it  remains 

the  same. 

Wordsworth's  "Daffodils"  gives  us  more  than 

239 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

the  daffodils  of  tlie  botanist;  Emerson's  "Humble- 
Bee'*  gives  us  more  than  we  can  get  from  any  work 
on  entomology;  Burns's  "Mouse"  is  a  real  mouse, 
but  not  the  one  you  catch  in  a  trap;  and  Shake- 
speare's violets  —  where  do  they  grow  save  in  the 
magic  page  of  Shakespeare?  Art  always  rises  above 

fact. 

I  am  insisting  upon  these  things  as  if  I  thought 
there  were  those  who  would  dispute  them,  but  prob- 
ably there  are  not.  Realists  and  idealists  must  agree 
when  they  imderstand  one  another. 


Young  men  of  literary  ambition  often  ask  me 
what  they  shall  do  to  become  good  writers.  I  usually 
answer  that  there  is  not  much  hope  for  them  or  they 
would  not  ask  that  question.  If  they  were  born  to 
write,  they  will  not  need  much  guidance.  If  they 
were  not,  who  can  really  help  them?  The  old  advice, 
"Look  into  your  heart  and  write,"  puts  the  whole 
matter  in  a  nutshell,  but  if  the  heart  has  no  interior, 
if  it  is  not  in  some  sense  a  mirror  of  the  universe, 
what  is  the  use  of  looking? 

One  may  say  straight  seeing,  clear  thinking,  and 
keen  feeling  are  among  the  prime  requisites  for 
good  writing,  but  telling  the  blind  to  see  and  the 
dull  to  feel  and  the  halt  to  be  nimble  is  not  very 
practical  advice. 


II 

RELIGION 

MY  readers  sometimes  write  me  and  complain 
that  there  is  too  much  Nature  in  my  books 
and  not  enough  God,  which  seems  to  me  like  com- 
plaining that  there  is  too  much  about  the  daylight 
and  not  enough  about  the  sun.  What,  then,  is 
Nature?  Whence  its  source?  Why  are  we  Nature- 
lovers? 

Of  course  the  above  criticism  springs  from  the 
old  conception  which  has  been  so  long  drilled  into 
us,  namely,  that  there  are  two  —  Nature  and  God 
—  and  that  they  are  often  at  strife  as  Tennyson 
hints  when  he  asks,  "Are  God  and  Nature  then  at 
strife?" 

I  look  upon  Nature  not  merely  as  the  garment  of 
God,  but  as  his  living  integument.  With  a  manlike 
God,  the  maker  and  ruler  of  the  universe,  and  ex- 
isting apart  from  it,  I  can  do  nothing. 

When  I  write  about  Nature  and  make  much  of 
her  beauties  and  wonders,  I  am  writing  about  God. 
The  Nature-lover  is  the  God-lover.  I  am  chary 
about  using  the  term  "God"  because  of  its  theo- 
logical and  other  disturbing  associations.  There  is 
something  too  austere  and  forbidding,  and  even 
terrible,  in  the  conception  it  calls  up.  But  call  it 

241 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

Nature  and  it  is  brought  immeasurably  near.  I  see 
it,  touch  it,  hear  it,  smell  it.  I  see  the  flowers,  the 
birds,  and  all  engaging  aspects  of  field  and  wood 
and  sky.  I  am  a  part  of  it.  I  see  my  absolute  de- 
pendence upon  it,  and  that  denying  it  or  slighting 
it,  or  turning  my  back  upon  it,  were  like  denying  or 
slighting  gravity. 


Where  are  the  tracks  we  made  in  the  snow  last 
winter?  How  real  they  seemed!  how  much  they 
expressed!  They  told  which  way  we  were  going, 
whether  we  were  hurrying  or  sauntering,  what  we 
had  on  our  feet,  and  they  might  easily  tell  if  we 
bore  a  burden,  or  if  we  were  drunk  or  sober,  if  we 
w^ere  man,  or  woman,  or  child.  They  were  real. 
The  snow  still  exists  in  the  form  of  water  or  vapor, 
and  the  feet  that  imprinted  themselves  upon  the 
snow  may  still  exist,  but  the  tracks  that  meant  so 
much  —  where  are  they?  The  track  was  simply  a 
record,  like  any  other  print  or  writing,  and  does  not 
exist  apart  from  the  material  substance  that  gave 
and  took  the  impression.  Are  we  ourselves  anything 
more  than  the  tracks  of  the  Eternal  in  the  dust  of 
earth? 


The  serious,  reverent,  and  truth -loving  mind  will 
never  be  without  religion,  because  these  traits  are 
the  fountain-head  of  all  religious  emotion.  Add  the 
logical  faculty,  and  the  gift  of  imagination,  and  such 

242 


RELIGION 

a  mind  will  go  to  nature  for  its  religion  rather  than 
to  creeds  and  traditions.  It  must  have  something 
tangible,  and  it  must  have  something  that  stimu- 
lates its  idealism.  Science  may  afford  its  foundation, 
but  not  its  finish.  Its  science  must  be  supplemented 
by  its  philosophy.  Minds  without  reverence  and 
ideality  stop  with  science  and  usually  end  in  ma- 
terialism, but  minds  trained  in  the  scientific  method, 
and  with  the  gift  of  ideality,  like  Tyndall,  Huxley, 
and  others,  can  never  rest  content  in  what  is  usually 
called  materialism. 


That  one  of  our  well-known  college  professors 
should  recently  have  named  his  volume  treating  of 
the  physical  aspects  of  the  earth  and  our  relations 
to  it  "The  Holy  Earth  "  shows  what  a  change  has 
come  over  the  lay  mind  in  regard  to  universal  nature 
in  comparatively  recent  times.  The  lay  mind  is 
rapidly  becoming  more  truly  devout  than  the  cler- 
ical mind  —  more  inclined  to  act  upon  the  literal 
truth  of  the  assertion  that  the  earth  is  divine,  and 
that  God  is  everywhere.  The  clergy  have  barely  yet 
discovered  that  the  earth  is  a  celestial  body  as  are  all 
the  rest  of  the  hosts  of  heaven,  and  that  the  morn- 
ing star  is  no  more  divine  than  the  morning  earth. 


The  man  of  science  is  forced  to  account  for  man 
upon  natural  gTounds.  He  knows  no  other.  In 
searching  the  heavens  and  the  earth  through,  he 

243 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

can  find  no  other.  The  whole  procession  proceeds 
according  to  natural  law.  No  hand  is  reached  forth 
out  of  the  void  arbitrarily  to  change  anything,  or  to 
introduce  anything,  or  to  interfere  with  the  regular 
order.  Everything  has  its  antecedent,  or  refers  to 
something  gone  before.  Nothing  begins  de  novo. 
We  appear  and  play  our  part  in  a  series  of  events 
which  we  fancy  must  have  had  a  beginning  and 
which  will  have  an  ending,  but  we  deceive  ourselves; 
we  measure  the  infinite  by  the  finite;  there  is  no 
beginning  or  ending  to  the  universe,  there  is  only 
continuance  wdth  incessant  change.  The  earth  did 
not  begin  as  the  world  we  know;  it  did  not  begin  as 
we  find  it  in  any  past  geologic  age,  or  astronomic 
age.  It  probably  came  out  of  the  sun,  and  it  came 
out  of  a  vast  cyclone  of  star  dust;  and  it  came  out  of 
what?  Be  assured  out  of  some  preceding  condition 
of  eternal  matter. 


The  change  of  man's  attitude  toward  nature  is 
one  of  the  most,  if  not  the  most,  remarkable  changes 
in  his  mental  and  spiritual  story  in  modern  times. 
It  amounts  to  a  revolution.  What  he  once  feared  and 
fled  from,  he  now  loves  and  studies  and  endows  with 
a  high  degree  of  religious  and  spiritual  value. 

The  fields,  the  woods,  the  waters,  the  starry 
night,  have  an  attraction  and  a  meaning  to  the  mod- 
ern mind  that  the  mind  of  the  pre-scientific  ages  had 
no  conception  of, 

244 


RELIGION 

"The  meanest  flower  that  blows  "  can  bring  to 
Wordsworth  "thoughts  that  do  often  He  too  deep 
for  tears."  How  impossible  such  a  poet  as  he  in  an 
earlier  time!  With  all  his  outward  adherence  to  a 
religion  of  creeds  and  rituals,  he  was  at  heart  the 
poet  of  Nature.  His  attitude  toward  her  was  a  reli- 
gious attitude,  as  has  been  more  or  less  the  attitude 
of  the  leading  poets  since  his  day.  "The  primal 
sympathy  "  which  he  celebrates  —  the  sympathy 
with  birds,  flowers,  trees,  rocks,  winds,  waves  — 
we  are  all  more  and  more  conscious  of,  partly  be- 
cause he  gave  that  sympathy  utterance  in  such  in- 
spired lines,  and  partly  because  science  has  given 
us  a  more  intelligent  conception  of  the  mysteries 
and  the  glories  that  surround  us.  Many  of  us  can 
now  say  with  him :  — 

"And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  Joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  subhme 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air. 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man: 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.  Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 
And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye,  and  ear,  —  both  what  they  half  create. 
And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  nature  and  tbe  language  of  the  sense, 

245 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse. 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being." 

That  creative  eye  and  ear  in  the  presence  of 
Nature  is  what  mainly  distinguishes  the  modern 
attitude  from  the  ancient.  Sympathy  is  always  crea- 
tive. "Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we 
live." 

§ 

Emerson  refers  to  a  Swedenborgian  neighbor  of 

his  who  was  a  philosopher  up  to  a  certain  point,  and 
then  accepted  the  village  church  as  a  part  of  the  sky; 
he  says  the  day  is  not  far  distant  when  men  will 
cease  thus  to  patch  the  ecliptic  of  the  universe  with 
a  small  bit  of  tin.  Is  not  this  the  mistake  all  the 
good  church  people  make?  Nature  is  so  much  bigger 
than  their  creed,  and  so  much  more  real,  that  it  is 
like  confounding  a  shingle  roof  with  the  firmament. 
The  gulf  between  the  sky  and  the  church  is  no 
greater  than  the  guK  between  the  orthodox  religion 
and  our  natural  knowledge. 


That  Christ  came  out  of  the  earth,  that  the 
Hebrew  prophets,  that  Paul,  that  all  the  saints  and 
poets  and  philosophers  of  the  world  came  out  of  the 
earth;  that  our  planet,  and  the  system  of  which  it 
forms  a  part,  should  hold  the  elements  of  such  men; 
that  they  should  be  struck  from  it  as  the  spark  is 
evoked  from  the  flint  —  such  facts  as  these  should 

246 


RELIGION 

open  our  eyes  to  the  marvels  in  which  we  live.  But, 
you  ma>y  say  the  spark  is  not  evoked  from  the  flint; 
it  is  the  result  of  the  collision  of  the  flint  with  the 
steel,  and  represents  the  energy  of  the  arm  that 
wielded  the  steel  —  the  spark  is  visible  energy. 
True  enough,  and  man  was  not  evoked  from  the 
earth  without  some  force  or  push  in  matter  which 
our  analysis  of  it  does  not  disclose  —  an  aboriginal 
intelligence  which  worked  its  will  upon  the  atoms 
and  molecules. 

§ 

That  the  roar  of  the  tempest  and  of  the  volcano 
as  they  crush  or  consume  towns  and  cities,  is  the 
voice  of  God,  is  a  conception  of  Deity  that  belongs 
to  an  earlier  age  of  the  world.  Yet  these  are  all 
a  part  of  Nature.  What  are  we  to  do  with  them? 
There  is  no  alternative  but  to  dehumanize  God  and 
regard  him  as  he  actually  is  in  the  material  universe 
which  surrounds  us,  and  of  which  we  ourselves  are 
an  integral  part  —  a  part,  at  times,  as  irrational,  as 
cruel,  as  destructive,  as  selfish,  as  frenzied,  as  the 
elemental  forces  out  of  which  we  came.  The  Nature- 
God  is  no  better  than  we  are,  and  we  are  as  good  as 
he  is,  we  are  bone  of  his  bone,  and  flesh  of  his  flesh, 
mere  atoms  and  molecules  in  a  corporeal  frame  that 
fills  and  is  the  universe.  WTiat  the  Nature-God  does, 
we  do;  our  mad,  irrational  warrings  are  matched  on 
a  vaster  scale  by  his  conflicting  and  destroying 
forces.  Our  intelligence  is  a  spark  of  his  intelligence, 

247 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

our  sanity,  our  beneficence,  are  feeble  reflections  of 
his  sanity  and  beneficence.  All  is  of  a  piece  in  this 
universe. 


Sooner  or  later,  if  one  would  not  be  divided  against 
himself,  he  must  face  this  terrible  question  of  Na- 
ture—  of  the  Cosmos  as  a  whole.  Is  it  of  God,  or  of 
the  Devil,  or  of  both.^  The  pious  souls  seem  long  to 
have  held  that  it  is  of  both,  that  the  more  genial 
aspects  of  Nature — birds,  flowers,  streams,  stars, 
sunsets,  summer  breezes,  fair  prospects  —  were  of 
God,  and  that  Nature's  destructive,  terrifying 
aspects  and  forces  —  storms,  earthquakes,  pesti- 
lence, wars — were  of  the  Devil.  Men  have  rarely 
had  the  courage  to  say  that  it  is  all  of  God,  that  it 
is  all  divine;  that  the  cyclone,  the  volcanoes,  the 
earthquakes,  the  thunderbolt,  are  as  truly  of  God 
as  are  the  forms  and  forces  that  directly  please  and 
minister  to  us. 

We  teach  our  children  to  say  glibly  that  God  is 
everywhere,  in  us  and  without  us,  above  us  and 
below  us,  and  that  in  Him  we  literally  live  and  move 
and  have  our  being.  Then  when  they  ask  us,  Is  He 
in  the  cesspool,  in  the  cyclone,  in  famines,  in  the 
war,  in  all  the  dark  and  cruel  aspects  of  Nature, 
we  are  at  a  loss  for  an  answer.  In  his  "Journal" 
Emerson  asks,  half  quizzically,  "Is  God  in  a  load  of 
brick,  is  he  in  the  barber-shop,  and  the  bar-room?" 
When  confronted  with  such  questions  we  are  forced 

248 


RELIGION 

to  have  two  gods,  a  good  God  and  a  bad  God,  or 
else  to  give  up  all  notions  of  a  man-made  personal 
God,  —  the  awful  maker  and  ruler  of  the  universe, 
whom  our  fathers  worshiped,  and  whose  wrath  we 
seek  to  shun  or  propitiate  by  our  good  deeds, — 
either  this  or  else  the  identification  of  God  with 
universal  Nature  in  all  her  multiform  beneficent 
and  malevolent  aspects. 

We  seek  to  evade  the  issue  by  saying  that  God 
cannot  be  the  author  of  evil;  man  himself  is  the 
author  of  evil;  he  is  a  free  moral  agent  and  can 
choose  the  evil  from  the  good.  But  who  made  man? 
Who  gave  him  the  capacity  to  choose  between  good 
and  evil.f^  By  whose  laws  is  the  distinction  made? 
If  he  burn  his  neighbor's  barn  or  covet  his  neigh- 
bor's wife  or  steal  his  neighbor's  goods,  does  he 
create  out  of  himseK  some  new  force  or  employ 
some  new  agent?  Does  his  will  have  anything  to 
do  with  his  instincts,  his  temperament,  his  disposi- 
tion, the  color  of  his  hair,  the  quality  of  his  brain, 
his  stature,  his  weight,  his  mental  or  spiritual  en- 
dowment? Are  not  these  things  all  of  God,  or  from 
sources  outside  the  sphere  of  man's  voluntary  activ- 
ities? Hedge  or  qualify  as  we  will,  man  is  a  part  of 
Nature.  His  conscious  opposition  to  Nature  is  also 
a  part  of  Nature.  ^Vhence  comes  his  capacity  to  use 
Nature,  to  improve  upon  her,  to  pit  her  forces  against 
each  other,  but  from  Nature  herself?  Can  there  be 
anything  in  the  universe  that  is  not  of  the  universe? 

249 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

Can  we  make  two  or  three  out  of  the  one?  Is  there 
an  outside  to  the  Cosmos,  a  beyond?  Or  an  inside 
that  is  a  world  apart?  When  a  man  can  Hft  himself 
into  his  carriage  by  his  waist-band,  or  hurl  a  stone 
against  gravity  without  the  aid  of  gravity,  or  the 
swimmer  overcome  the  resistance  of  the  water 
without  the  aid  of  water,  or  sail  his  boat  against 
the  wind  without  the  aid  of  the  wind,  or  walk  with- 
out that  which  resists  his  walking,  then  can  man  do 
some  act  or  think  some  thought  without  the  aid  of 
Nature.  These  familiar  facts  or  deductions  of  sci- 
ence Emerson  has  put  poetically  in  his  poem, 
"Brahma":  — 

**If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays. 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain. 
They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

**  Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near  ; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear; 
And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

*'They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 
When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  ^\nngs; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt. 
And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

"  The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode. 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 
But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good ! 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven." 

250 


RELIGION 

The  physician  thinks  he  aids  Nature,  as  he  often 
does,  especially  in  surgery,  but  it  is  only  by  the  use 
of  means  which  Nature  has  given  him.  He  is  a  bit 
of  Nature  himself  and  can  lend  a  hand  to  the  strug- 
gling Nature  within  us.  Man's  use  of  Nature  con- 
sists of  short  cuts ;  he  abridges,  cut  outs  the  waste 
and  delays,  removes  obstructions  and  directs  forces 
in  new  channels. 


Ill 

SCIENCE 

IN  my  excursions  into  nature,  science  plays  a 
part,  but  not  the  leading  part;  it  is  like  a  silent 
monitor  and  friend  who  speaks  when  spoken  to. 
Or  I  may  say  that  I  carry  it  in  the  back  of  my  head 
and  only  now  and  then  in  the  front.  I  do  not  go  forth 
as  an  ornithologist  taking  note  of  the  birds,  nor  as  a 
botanist  taking  note  of  the  flowers,  nor  as  a  zoologist 
studying  the  wild  creatures,  nor  as  a  biologist,  peep- 
ing and  prying  into  the  mysteries  of  life,  but  as  a 
nature-lover  pure  and  simple,  who  gathers  much 
through  sympathy  and  observation. 

I  am  committed  to  no  specific  object;  my  walk  is 
satisfactory  if  I  fail  to  add  a  particle  to  my  store 
of  nature  knowledge. 

Oh,  the  wisdom  that  grows  on  trees,  that  mur- 
murs in  the  streams,  that  floats  in  the  wind,  that 
sings  ui  the  birds,  that  is  fragrant  in  the  flowers, 
that  speaks  in  the  storms  —  the  wisdom  that  one 
gathers  on  the  shore,  or  when  sauntering  in  the 
fields,  or  in  resting  under  a  tree,  the  wisdom  that 
makes  him  forget  his  science,  and  exacts  only  his 
love  —  how  precious  it  all  is ! 

Love  of  nature  does  not  depend  upon  exact 
knowledge,  though  exact  knowledge  has  its  value. 

252 


SCIENCE 

My  interest  in  the  rocks,  in  the  fields,  and  in  the 
cliffs  above  them  is  enhanced  by  what  science  has 
told  me  about  them,  but  is  not  summed  up  by  that. 
A  knowledge  of  the  fundamentals  of  geology  greatly 
adds  to  one's  enjoyment  of  the  earth's  features. 
Science  is  always  a  good  seasoning,  but  one  does 
not  want  too  much  of  a  good  seasoning. 


How  it  makes  one  wilt  to  think  of  the  vast  time 
ahead  of  us  —  time  to  match  the  abyss  of  geologic 
time  behind  us !  How  trivial  and  futile  seem  all  our 
ambitions  and  all  our  achievements  in  the  face  of 
the  eternity  to  come!  Consider  only  ten  thousand 
years  hence  —  a  mere  tick  of  the  great  Clock  of 
Time  —  what  or  who  will  be  where  the  nations  are 
to-day?  The  natural  philosophers  think  that  life 
upon  this  globe  may  go  on  two  or  three  million 
years  yet.  What  a  staggering  proposition!  Man  has 
probably  been  man  only  a  few  hundred  thousand 
years;  with  the  brain  and  body  he  now  has,  only  a 
few  millenniums.  What  will  he  be  in  half  a  million 
years  hence?  Will  any  records  or  memories  of  our 
times  last  till  then?  Of  course  it  is  possible,  that 
some  cosmic  catastrophe  may  blot  out  our  solar 
system  before  that  time  —  possible  but  not  prob- 
able. 


We  use  the  term  "celestial  mechanics,"  and  fitly 
enough,  because  the  forces  we  see  in  operation  are 

253 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

physical  forces,  but  how  radically  unlike  any  mech- 
anism we  know  among  the  bodies  on  the  surface  of 
the  earth!  With  all  our  science  and  our  mastery 
over  the  physical  forces  we  cannot  reproduce  on  any 
scale  such  a  mechanism  as  that  of  the  moon  revolv- 
ing around  the  earth,  or  as  that  of  the  earth 
around  the  sun,  or  as  the  revolution  of  the  earth 
upon  its  axis.  Every  ball  we  project  into  space,  by 
whatever  means,  spins  on  its  axis,  but  it  sooner  or 
later  stops  spinning  and  falls  to  the  earth;  still  the 
globe  spins  on  through  the  ether  forever.  But  to 
cause  one  ball  to  revolve  around  another  without 
any  tangible  connection,  as  the  moon  revolves 
around  the  earth,  is  far  beyond  the  reach  of  any 
mechanics  we  possess.  We  name  two  forces  to  ac- 
count for  the  phenomenon,  centripetal  and  cen- 
trifugal, but  these  names  only  cover  a  mystery.  If 
there  are  two  such  forces  at  work,  why  cannot  we 
invoke  them  in  our  mechanisms?  Cosmic  forces  and 
cosmic  laws  transcend  terrestrial  forces  and  laws. 
They  control  the  spheres  and  not  the  bodies  on  their 
surfaces.  Perpetual  motion  is  impossible  among 
tangible  bodies  on  the  globe,  but  it  is  the  rule  in 
celestial  mechanics.  Our  great  cosmic  poet,  Walt 
Whitman,  saw  this:  "There  is  no  stoppage,"  he 
says,  "and  never  can  be."  The  whirl  and  dance  of 
worlds  and  systems  go  on  forever.  The  perpetual 
movement  in  the  molecules  of  matter,  in  the  infin- 
itely little,  goes  on  among  the  orbs  of  heaven,  the 

254 


SCIENCE 

infinitely  large.  In  celestial  mechanics  there  is  no 
friction;  the  dissipation  of  energy  does  not  take 
place.  How  can  the  All  either  gain  or  lose?  The  Cos- 
mos is  a  circle  that  has  neither  beginning  nor  end. 
On  the  earth's  sm^ace  the  laws  of  Unes  and  angles 
rule,  but  among  the  orbs  there  is  another  law.  All 
the  work  of  man's  hands  involve  detachment,  dis- 
continuity, beginnings  and  endings,  under  and 
over,  falling  and  rising,  but  outside  of  the  earth 
these  conceptions  do  not  apply.  They  apply  only  in 
the  realm  of  parts  and  fragments.  The  sun,  of  course, 
dissipates  energy,  but  can  the  sum  total  of  the  energy 
of  the  Cosmos  be  either  increased  or  diminished? 
It  is  like  the  dissipation  of  moisture  on  the  earth  — 
the  water  takes  another  form. 

There  has  been  but  one  cosmic  poet.  Whitman. 
The  orbs  occupy  him  more  than  they  have  occupied 
any  other  and  all  other  poets. 


The  slowness  of  the  changes  in  cosmic  nature  is 
suggested  by  the  changes  in  the  period  of  the 
earth's  rotation,  which,  philosophers  calculate,  has 
been  lengthened  about  one  three-hundredth  part 
of  a  second  since  720  years  B.C.  This  is  certainly 
holding  the  astronomical  forces  to  a  pretty  rigid 
account.  It  seems  that  Whitman  was  not  quite 
within  the  truth  —  the  scientific  truth  —  in  his 
rhapsody  on  the  earth  when  he  said  it  revolved 
forever  and  ever  in  its  own  orbit  without  the  un- 

^55 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

truth  of  a  single  second,  but  we  may  readily  acquit 
him  of  any  violation  of  poetic  truth. 


It  is  not  easy  to  think  of  invisible  or  of  dark  light, 
yet  such  exists.  The  ethereal  vibrations  produced  by 
the  discharge  of  a  Ley  den  jar  obey  all  the  laws  of 
optics,  and  yet  the  eye  cannot  perceive  them;  they 
are  too  slow.  They  are  only  from  a  hundred  thou- 
sand to  a  million  a  second.  What  we  call  light  is  an 
experience  or  sensation  of  the  eye,  and  the  eye  takes 
in  only  about  two  thirds  of  the  vibrations  that  go 
out  from  the  sun.  Of  the  potent  ultra-violet  rays  the 
eye  knows  nothmg.  The  retina  is  incompetent  to 
respond  to  these  rays,  they  are  so  rapid. 


All  energy  comes  from  the  sun,  and  the  machin- 
ery of  the  molecular  process,  the  materialists  tell 
us,  determines  what  form  it  shall  take,  whether 
a  plant  or  a  man.  But  some  agent  or  force  must  in- 
tervene between  the  sun  and  the  elements,  some- 
thing must  weave  the  force  into  different  patterns. 
Do  the  molecules  hold  the  pattern?  Evidently  the 
molecules  of  the  man  hold  the  pattern  of  the  man, 
and  the  molecules  of  the  frog  hold  the  pattern  of 
the  frog,  and  of  the  cabbage  and  the  oak,  the  same. 
But  what  did  they  hold  before  they  entered  into 
this  copartnership.?  We  have  to  postulate  the  organ- 
ism to  set  up  this  weaving.  Carbon  and  oxygen  do 
not  set  up  this  weaving  of  their  own  accord  in  dead 

256 


SCIENCE 

matter.  Before  they  act,  something  must  have  hap- 
pened to  them  in  that  imaginary  world  of  atomic 
motions  and  attractions.  The  solar  energy  was 
pom-ed  upon  the  earth  millions  of  years  before  life 
appeared.  While  we  know  well  that  no  life  could 
appear  without  it,  we  know  also  that  something 
happens  to  it  before  it  appears  as  thought  or  love 
in  the  brain  of  man.  I  do  not  urge  that  somethuig 
has  to  be  added  to  physical  forces  to  make  them 
psychical,  but  they  have  to  be  changed,  or  raised  to 
a  higher  power,  through  some  agency  that  we  can- 
not translate  into  human  speech. 

To  reduce  our  mental  and  spiritual  life  to  terms 
of  physics  and  physiology  is  to  reduce  the  flower  to 
ashes,  life  processes  to  chemical  reactions.  The 
human  heart  is  a  pump,  but  is  it  not  a  pump  plus 
something  else?  We  recoil  from  the  cold  scientific 
analysis  of  any  living  thing,  because  the  main 
thing,  the  life  principle,  escapes.  Can  you  find  the 
mind  by  dissecting  the  brain? 

§ 

How  man's  knowing  faculties  have  come  to  the 
front  during  the  past  hundred  years!  Time  was 
when  his  religious  faculties  and  his  emotions  led  all 
the  rest,  and  his  artistic  powers  went  hand  in  hand 
with  them.  But  now  it  is  his  understanding  that 
leads.  Now  his  desire  above  all  else  is  to  know  things 
as  they  are  in  and  of  themselves.  He  is  less  religious, 
less  artistic,  less  superstitious;  his  emotions  take 

257 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

a  back  seat,  exact  knowledge  leads.  This  change  has 
its  unhandsome  side.  Life  is  in  many  ways  less 
attractive.  We  have  less  veneration,  less  humility, 
less  virtue  than  our  fathers.  Large,  loving,  pictur- 
esque personalities  are  becoming  rarer  and  rarer, 
both  in  private  and  in  public  life. 

In  his  practical  life  man  had  to  follow  his  reason 
and  common  sense;  he  had  to  have  a  little  practical 
science  or  perish,  but  in  his  religious  and  emotional 
life  he  was  under  no  such  pressure;  he  was  free,  and 
has  always  been  free,  to  let  himself  go,  to  give  un- 
bridled range  to  his  imagination;  hence  his  fan- 
tastic beliefs,  and  his  silly  or  horrible  superstitions. 


The  earth  grew  as  a  whole  like  an  organic  being. 
The  hemispheres  kept  pace  with  each  other  in  their 
development.  When  the  coal  was  being  laid  down  in 
Europe,  it  was  being  laid  down  in  America;  when 
the  chalk  hills  of  England  and  France  were  being 
formed,  chalk-beds  were  being  deposited  in  our 
Southwestern  States.  When  the  Old  Red  Sandstone 
was  forming  in  Scotland,  an  equivalent  formation 
was  being  built  up  in  this  country.  The  great  form- 
ative and  deformative  movements  were  world- 
wide. The  continents  are  all  built  upon  the  same 
plan,  a  foundation  of  granite  and  a  superstructure 
of  sedimentary  rocks,  the  different  formations  suc- 
ceeding one  another  in  regular  order  around  the 
globe.  Earthquakes  and  volcanoes  are  local;  over- 

258 


SCIENCE 

thrusts  and  the  crumpling  of  the  earth's  crust  are 
local;  but  the  periods  of  continental  subsidence  and 
declination  seem  to  have  been  universal.  When  any 
part  of  Europe  went  under  the  ocean,  some  part  of 
North  America  went  under,  and  some  part  of  Asia 
and  Africa  and  South  America. 

We  are  prone  to  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  large 
bodies  are  subject  to  the  same  law  as  small,  that 
size  does  not  count  in  nature.  The  earth  is  as  much 
a  unit,  as  much  an  organic  whole,  as  an  apple  on  a 
tree.  In  the  development  of  life  upon  the  earth  the 
same  thing  holds  true;  no  part  got  much  ahead  or 
lagged  much  behind  the  others,  the  different  forms 
appeared  in  the  same  ages  in  the  different  countries. 

Whether  this  came  about  through  migration,  or 
as  the  result  of  parallel  lines  of  development,  who 
knows?  Was  life  at  first  local,  and  then  universal 
by  spreading.^  Was  the  horse,  the  camel,  the  ele- 
phant, the  bird,  at  first  local?  Was  man?  Did  he 
emerge  in  more  than  one  country  and  age?  If  man, 
or  any  other  species  of  animal,  had  but  one  single 
line  of  descent,  how  could  that  line  have  escaped 
being  broken,  throughout  the  appalling  vicissitudes 
of  geologic  time?  If  each  form  of  life  had  its  centre 
or  point  of  emergence,  what  was  doing  at  other 
centres  or  points  on  the  globe  at  the  same  time? 
If  the  Creative  Energy  worked  through  all  matter 
why  would  it  not  focus  itself  at  many  points?  Why 
only  at  one  point? 

259 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

If  at  any  time  during  the  past  history  of  the  globe 
there  was  but  one  pair  of  animals  through  which 
man  could  come,  what  a  wonder  that  he  ever  got 
here !  The  conditions  that  produced  a  species  in  one 
part  of  the  globe,  would  they  not  produce  the  same 
species  in  some  other  part?  The  vital,  the  physi- 
cal laws  are  universal.  Take  Eocene  times  in  this 
country  and  in  Europe,  and  in  Asia  and  Africa; 
was  the  progenitor  of  man  in  each  of  them,  and 
was  he  the  same  in  each?  But  all  this  is  a  pathless 
wood. 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  of  life  as  a  tree  with  only 
one  trunk,  and  starting  in  one  particular  part  of  the 
earth.  It  is  easier  to  think  of  it  under  the  image  of 
the  grass,  at  home  everywhere.  The  old  seas  were 
universal;  here  life  had  its  origin.  In  one  part  of  that 
sea,  or  in  all  parts?  When  it  got  upon  the  land,  was  it 
at  one  point  only?  Or,  to  turn  the  question  around 
a  little,  the  seal,  the  whale,  the  manatee,  are  de- 
scendants of  land  animals.  Did  each  race  originate 
in  a  single  pair  that  first  took  to  the  water?  How 
Nature  covers  up  her  footsteps  or  wipes  out  her 
missing  links !  Foolish  Nature ! 


I  love  to  dwell  upon  these  different  stages  of 
world  growth,  and  see  in  imagination  how  it  fared 
with  our  continent  during  each  one  of  them.  The 
Cretaceous  was  evidently  an  age  of  low  lands, 
especially  in  the  southern  and  v/estern  parts  of  the 

260 


SCIENCE 

continents,  of  extensive  inland  seas,  of  vast  calca- 
reous deposits,  of  slow  sedimentation,  and  exten- 
sive consumption  of  carbon  dioxide.  Most  of  the 
western  coal  measures  were  laid  down  during  this 
age.  With  the  reelevation  of  the  land,  the  age  of 
huge  reptiles  —  the  dinosaurs,  the  mesosaurs,  the 
gigantic  marine  lizards  —  came  to  an  end,  and  the 
period  of  mammalian  life,  the  Tertiary,  came  in. 
During  this  period  the  borders  of  the  continent, 
here  and  there,  were  under  the  ocean,  from  New 
Jersey  southward,  including  the  whole  of  Florida 
and  a  large  part  of  the  Gulf  States  and  of  Texas, 
but  the  interior  of  the  continent  was  at  last  stable, 
and  the  sea  never  again  encroached  upon  it. 


If  the  parts  of  the  watch  had  an  attraction  for 
one  another  analogous  to  that  of  chemical  aflanity, 
or  analogous  to  that  which  prevails  among  persons, 
it  is  not  incredible  that  a  watch  might  result;  or  if 
the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  or  if  w^ords  had  attrac- 
tions for  one  another,  intelligent  sentences  might 
result.  The  organs  of  the  living  body  certainly  have 
no  attraction  for  one  another,  yet  here  they  are 
working  together  to  a  single  end.  But  to  make  a 
watch,  even  if  the  different  parts  attracted  one  an- 
other, must  there  not  be  an  organizing  principle  — 
something  to  make  the  watch  a  unit? 

Chemical  aflinity  results  in  water,  it  results  in 
the  nitrates,  the  carbonates,  the  hydrates,  but  no 

261 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

conceivable  attraction  could  result  in  the  organiza- 
tion of  these  in  a  living  body. 

Chemical  affinity  builds  up  the  nitrates,  the  car- 
bonates, the  hydrates,  which  in  turn  build  up  the 
living  body,  but  under  the  control  of  something 
more  than  chemical  affinity.  Life  could  not  result 
without  chemical  affinity,  but  chemical  affinity  can- 
not beget  life;  at  least,  it  will  not  in  our  hands.  We 
have  to  postulate  the  organizing  impulse  —  the  im- 
pulse imder  whose  control  many  units  work  to- 
gether to  produce  one  whole,  parts  subordinated  to 
parts  and  in  which  metabolism  and  reproduction 
and  assimilation  take  place. 

A  rock  is  also  built  up  of  parts,  but  they  are  parts 
without  function  or  purposeful  relation.  Chemical 
affinity  plays  its  part,  but  brings  about  no  change 
in  the  behavior  or  combination  of  the  elements, 
whereas  in  a  living  body  a  host  of  new  carbon  com- 
pounds are  developed. 


One  of  the  strangest  things  in  the  world  is  that 
though  we  live  all  our  days  in  an  ocean  made  up  of 
nitrogen  and  oxygen,  yet  one  of  the  most  difficult 
things  for  us  to  do  is  to  capture  and  appropriate  any 
of  this  nitrogen.  We  take  it  into  our  lungs,  it  bathes 
our  bodies,  in  fact  we  cannot  escape  from  it,  and 
yet  to  seize  it,  to  separate  it  from  the  oxygen,  and 
make  it  unite  chemically  with  some  other  body  and 
fertilize  our  soil  with  it,  is  an  Herculean  task.  It  is 

262 


SCIENCE 

in  the  soil  in  the  shape  of  air,  but  only  certain  plants 
can  lay  hold  of  it.  Minute  organisms  can  do  it,  and 
Niagara  can  do  it,  the  thunderbolt  can  do  it,  but 
what  else? 

§ 

After  we  have  divided  and  subdivided  matter 
mechanically  to  the  utmost  point,  and  reached  the 
molecule,  science  takes  the  further  step  and  divides 
it  chemically  and  reaches  the  atom.  Divide  a  mole- 
cule of  water  chemically  and  we  get  the  atoms  of 
hydrogen  and  oxygen  —  two  of  one  to  one  of  the 
other.  Divide  a  molecule  of  common  salt  chemically 
and  we  get  one  atom  of  sodium  and  one  of  chlorine. 
Divide  a  molecule  of  lime  chemically,  and  we  get 
one  atom  of  calcium  and  one  of  oxygen.  Oxygen  is 
one  of  two  main  elements  in  things  so  diverse  as 
lime,  air,  and  water  —  the  magic  of  chemical  com- 
binations! When  we  breathe,  we  take  into  our  lungs 
one  of  the  main  constituents  of  the  rocks  and  of  the 
solid  ground  under  our  feet.  Our  blood  is  red  by 
virtue  of  the  element  that  helps  hold  the  world 
together.  We  eat  and  bum  the  stuff  of  diamonds. 

The  ring  of  six  carbon  atoms  that  make  up  the 
molecule  of  the  diamond,  and  that  is  supposed  to 
account  for  its  hardness  —  how  imagmary  it  is! 
The  molecule  of  most  of  the  elementary  gases  con- 
sists of  two  atoms  of  these  elements.  The  molecules 
of  oxygen  and  nitrogen  in  the  air  are  not  combined 
chemically,  but  are  only  mechanically  mixed. 

263 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 


Are  we  not  safe  in  saying  that  matter  certainly 
modifies  itself,  that  its  incessant  physical  and  chem- 
ical changes  are  self-produced?  At  any  rate,  there 
is  seK-activity  in  the  material  universe,  perpetual 
motion  of  the  whole  —  a  whole  without  boundaries, 
which  seems  a  contradiction.  Perpetual  motion  of 
a  part  is  impossible;  that  is,  without  drawing  upon 
sources  of  energy  outside  itself.  And  perpetual  mo- 
tion where  nothing  is  at  rest  is  another  contradic- 
tion; the  motion  of  the  whole  is  equivalent  to  the 
rest  of  the  whole.  A  balloon  drifting  in  the  air  is  at 
rest  with  reference  to  the  moving  air. 

Wliy  the  forces  of  the  universe  do  not  find  their 
equilibrium  —  the  angle  of  repose,  the  state  of  a 
uniform  temperature  —  who  knows?  Its  energy  is 
stored  in  the  atom  as  potential  energy;  what  is  it 
that  converts  it  into  the  energy  of  motion?  Accord- 
ing to  the  principles  of  mechanics  should  we  not 
expect  the  vast  machinery  of  the  universe  to  run 
down,  or  the  motion  of  matter  to  cease  or  become 
only  potential?  We  cannot  think  of  the  energy  of 
the  universe  as  being  dissipated  out  of  itself;  there 
is  no  out  of  the  universe.  Energy  can  only  be  trans- 
formed, not  destroyed;  it  must  persist  somewhere. 
Archimedes  might  have  moved  the  world  had  he 
had  a  place  outside  the  world  from  which  to  bring 
his  power  to  bear. 

We  can  think  of  the  entities  as  acting  upon  one 

264 


SCIENCE 

another,  but  how  can  a  mechanical  force  act  upon 
itself?  How  can  a  body  fall  unless  there  is  some 
other  body  for  it  to  fall  to?  The  earth  falls  toward 
the  sun,  but  never  gets  there;  the  sun  falls  toward 
some  other  greater  sun,  and  that  toward  some  other 
centre  of  forces,  but  what  can  the  whole  universe 
fall  toward?  Is  it  not  like  asking.  Will  the  puppy 
ever  overtake  his  own  tail?  The  self -activity  of  the 
universe  seems  to  me  as  impossible  as  any  perpetual 
motion  machine  ever  dreamed  of.  Power  moves 
down  an  incline  of  temperature  or  gravity  or  a 
gradient  of  some  sort.  There  must  be  inequality 
and  fixed  points.  The  inertia  of  the  gun  resists  the 
explosive  power  of  the  powder  and  hurls  the  ball; 
the  resistance  of  the  ground  enables  us  to  walk. 
Power  is  available  to  power.  To  avail  ourselves  of 
gravity  we  must  first  overcome  it.  We  must  lift  the 
lever  up  before  we  can  ask  gravity  to  pull  it  down. 
We  have  to  pit  gravity  against  gravity. 

The  low  uniform  temperature  of  the  ocean  holds 
enough  potential  power  to  drive  all  the  ships  on  its 
surface,  and  more,  if  we  could  only  bring  it  to  bear 
—  create  an  incline  do\\Ti  which  it  could  flow.  But 
this  would  require  an  equal  power.  Then  there  is  an 
incline  of  temperature  from  the  southern  oceans  to 
the  northern  that  causes  the  great  ocean  currents, 
but  their  power  is  not  available,  because  there  are 
no  stable  shores  to  their  rivers  upon  which  to  plant 
our  machinery. 

265 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 


How  to  connect  our  psychic  life  with  the  physical 
is  just  as  hard  a  problem  to  science  as  how  to  con- 
nect physical  life  with  inorganic  nature.  The  breach 
of  continuity  seems  the  same  in  both  cases.  How  the 
spiritual  can  arise  out  of  the  material,  and  connect 
with  it,  is  beyond  the  reach  of  science  to  explain. 
The  life  of  man,  the  life  of  the  soul,  seems  as  limited 
and  uncertain,  when  seen  on  the  vast  background 
of  vegetable  and  animal  life,  as  does  the  latter  when 
contrasted  with  the  volume  and  permanence  of  the 
inorganic  order.  Man's  supreme  gift  of  reason  was 
long  in  coming  to  the  race,  and  it  is  long  in  coming 
to  the  individual,  and  it  comes  in  full  measure  to 
one,  and  in  scant  measure  to  another.  It  is  like  an 
extra  and  fortuitous  gift.  The  great  mass  of  human 
life  is  merely  a  complex  of  animal  instincts  and  in- 
heritances; free  intelligence  plays  but  a  very  small 
part  in  the  sum  total.  How  easily  is  the  reason  de- 
throned and  the  mind  reduced  to  chaos;  a  fall, 
a  blow  on  the  head,  fear,  misfortune,  overstrain 
of  any  kind,  and  reason  may  be  gone. 


If  light  is  not  a  substance,  or  an  independent 
entity,  but  only  a  process  or  a  mode  of  motion,  in  a 
substance,  the  effect  of  which  upon  the  eye  we  call 
light,  why  may  we  not  think  of  mind  or  soul  in  the 
same  terms?  —  a  molecular  motion  in  the  brain 
which  gives  rise  to  the  phenomena  we  call  mental? 

266 


SCIENCE 

There  is  no  mind  apart  from  mind,  as  there  is  no 
light  apart  from  the  eye;  there  are  only  the  vi- 
brations in  the  ether  which  give  us  the  sensation  of 
light. 

The  mind  turns,  so  to  speak,  and  regards  itself. 
Reason  looks  reason  in  the  eye  and  judges  it  —  an 
impossible  feat  tried  by  any  physical  standard. 
The  eye  can  see  all  things  but  itself;  the  body  can 
move  itself,  but  cannot  lift  itself;  in  lifting  we  press 
downward  with  the  force  we  exert  upward. 

When  a  certain  molecular  motion  in  the  brain 
ceases,  the  mind  ceases,  and  presently  another 
molecular  action  in  the  brain  substance,  called 
dissolution,  or  putrefaction,  sets  in.  The  mind  has 
not  gone  somewhere,  any  more  than  the  flame  of  the 
candle  has  gone  somewhere  when  we  blow  it  out. 
Its  elements  still  exist,  but  their  combinations  have 
changed.  The  heat  has  gone  into  the  great  sea  of 
uniform  temperature  and  has  changed  it  no  more 
than  a  drop  changes  the  ocean.  So  far  as  I  can  see 
there  are  no  terms  in  which  we  can  discuss  the 
reality  of  the  soul  except  in  the  terms  of  physical 
bodies.  To  discuss  it  in  theological  or  metaphysical 
terms  is  like  trying  to  weigh  shadows. 

The  amount  of  matter  now  on  the  earth  that  has 
once  formed  or  been  through  the  human  brain  is 
considerable  —  water,  lime,  phosphorus,  iron,  and 
so  on.  This  matter  has  gone  through  what  we  call 
the  psychic  world.  How  it  has  been  impressed  by  ib 

267 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

we  know  not,  but  I  like  to  think  of  it  as  having 
acquired  some  new  power  or  susceptibihties,  or  as 
being  more  and  more  ready  and  available  for  the 
psychic  sphere.  It  ought  to  be  easier  to  people  the 
world  with  great  men  now  than  in  any  earUer  time, 
though  it  would  be  hard  to  prove  that  it  is.  It  is 
certain  that  the  brains  of  vertebrate  animals  have 
increased  in  size  in  late  biologic  time,  and  that  the 
brains  of  our  forbears  steadily  increased  through 
the  late  Tertiary.  The  historic  period  is  probably 
too  short  to  measure  the  increase  of  mind-power. 

This  is  discussing  the  question  in  terms  that  have 
a  definite  meaning  to  us. 

That  consciousness,  which  is  as  much  the  result 
of  the  action  and  reaction  of  matter  as  a  flame  is, 
can  continue  irrespective  of  matter,  is  unthinkable. 
It  is  certain  that  light  and  electricity  cannot  exist 
apart  from  matter.  Mind  seems,  and  is,  very  real  to 
mind,  but  it  is  has  no  reality  to  our  bodily  senses. 
If  we  had  no  capacity  for  love  ourselves,  could  we 
recognize  love,  or  anger,  had  we  no  capacity  for  an- 
ger? One  cannot  get  behind  himself  and  see  what 
his  consciousness  is  like.  One  can  lift  another,  but 
not  himself. 

Things  very  real  to  us  utterly  cease  to  be.  Things 
which  have  no  reahty  in  themselves,  like  shadows, 
and  tracks  in  the  mud  and  snow,  impress  us  like  real 
things. 


268 


SCIENCE 


As  the  human  mind  advanced  in  the  study  of 
natural  causes,  or  in  scientific  knowledge,  the  time 
was  bound  to  come  when  it  would  ask  for  a  scien- 
tific explanation  of  life  itself.  The  old  teleological 
conceptions  could  no  longer  satisfy  it.  It  must  find 
the  reason  of  things  in  the  things  themselves.  Its 
science  reveals  to  it  worlds  within  worlds,  deep 
'  beneath  deep,  at  the  same  time  that  it  shows  the 
universe  to  be  one,  rounded  and  complete  in  itself, 
and  that  there  is  nothing  more  potent  or  mysterious 
than  the  common  elements  and  forces  that  are 
involved  in  our  daily  lives. 

Life  is  a  physical  phenomenon;  is  it  therefore 
capable  of  a  physical  explanation?  The  only  expla- 
nation science  can  give  must  be  a  physico-chemi- 
cal one;  it  would  be  transcending  its  own  sphere  to 
give  any  other.  The  only  explanation  it  can  give  of 
death  must  be  a  physico-chemical  one.  For  any 
other  explanation  of  life  or  death  we  must  appeal 
to  our  philosophy  or  to  our  religion,  which  is  our 
philosophy  suffused  with  personal  emotion.  Science 
must  and  does  seek  objective  proof;  philosophy  and 
religion  seek  the  approbation  of  the  reason  and  the 
intuitions.  The  question  is,  have  either  of  the  latter 
authority  over  science  on  such  a  question  as  the 
nature  and  origin  of  life?  Many  men  of  science  say 
*' No  "with  emphasis.  Long  study  of  the  chemis- 
try and  mechanism  of  life  convinces  such  men 

269 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

as  Haeckel,  Verworn,  Tyndall,  Huxley,  Schafer, 
Loeb,  and  others  that  life  is  a  product  of  the 
material  forces,  while  minds  with  a  philosophical 
and  religious  turn,  like  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  and  Henri 
Bergson,  and  others  equally  eminent,  feel  com- 
pelled to  invoke  a  psychic  or  transcendental  prin- 
ciple to  account  for  life  —  something  in  matter  but 
not  of  it. 

For  my  own  part  I  can  do  nothing  with  such  a 
question  without  some  sort  of  philosophy.  Science 
is  convincing  as  far  as  it  goes;  it  shows  me  how 
inevitably  life  is  bound  up  with  the  physico-chem- 
ical forces,  but  when  it  has  finished  its  explana- 
tion I  feel  constrained  to  ask,  "Is  that  all?"  Is  a 
description  or  analysis  of  life-processes  an  adequate 
account  of  life  itself.^  Is  a  living  body  only  the  sum 
of  its  physical  and  chemical  forces?  Is  a  man,  for  in- 
stance, like  any  other  mechanism,  only  the  total  of 
the  parts  and  elements  which  a  chemical  and  phys- 
ical analysis  of  him  reveals?  Does  not  the  unity 
of  a  living  body  have  a  significance  which  a  me- 
chanical unity  does  not  have? 


It  seems  almost  paradoxical  that  deep-sea  fishes, 
subject  to  a  pressure  of  thousands  of  poimds  to  the 
square  inch,  should  have  tender  and  loosely  knit 
bodies.  One  would  think  that  such  a  pressure  would 
beget  very  firm  and  compact  bodies.  Is  it  to  be  in- 
ferred that  if  the  atmospheric  pressure  upon  our 

270 


SCIENCE 

own  bodies  were  many  times  greater  than  it  is,  our 
muscles,  too,  would  be  soft  and  flabby?  We  are 
entirely  unconscious  of  this  pressure  and  our  move- 
ments are  not  at  all  hampered  by  it.  But  if  we  could 
step  into  a  room  or  an  enclosure  from  which  this 
pressure  were  removed,  we  should  probably  come 
very  near  exploding,  as  do  the  deep-sea  fishes  when 
suddenly  brought  to  the  surface.  Doubtless  under 
higher  pressure  our  bodies  would  be  much  smaller 
than  they  are,  as  all  the  deep-sea  fishes  are  very- 
small  —  only  a  few  inches  long.  Toward  the  surface 
they  increase  in  size,  and  we  find  the  whale,  an  air- 
breathing  animal,  the  largest  of  all.  Does  it  follow 
that  under  a  lighter  atmosphere  our  bodies  would 
be  larger  and  firmer?  A  low  barometer,  a  condition 
of  storm,  means  a  light  atmosphere,  and  if  we  are 
conscious  of  its  effect  at  all,  it  is  a  sense  of  weight; 
while  a  high  barometer  gives  us  a  sense  of  buoyancy 
and  elasticity.  The  men  on  Mars,  then,  other  con- 
ditions being  the  same,  should  be  larger  than  those 
upon  the  earth.  But  the  forms  of  life  on  Jupiter, 
Saturn,  Uranus,  and  Neptune  should  be  smaller, 
because    these   planets    all    have  very  dense    at- 
mospheres. 

Nature  in  the  deep  sea  is  the  same  old  equivocal 
Nature  that  we  know  at  the  surface  —  hesitating, 
fickle,  contradictory.  The  effect  of  the  darkness  in 
the  abysmal  depths  upon  some  forms  is  to  make 
the  eyes  very  small,  or  to  obliterate  them  entirely, 

271 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

so  that  scales  grow  over  the  places  where  the  eyes 
should  be.  In  other  cases  the  effect  is  precisely  the 
opposite  —  the  eyes  are  larger,  becoming  in  a  few 
species  like  enormous  goggles. 


IV 

EVOLUTION 

EVOLUTION  has  been  a  hard  road  to  travel, 
but  are  not  all  roads  that  lead  upward  more 
or  less  hard?  The  downward  roads  are  the  easy  ones 
—  the  road  of  degeneration  or  devolution — no  pain, 
no  struggle,  no  effort,  only  placid  acquiescence. 

The  sea  squirt  begins  life  as  a  free,  active  little 
fish,  a  simple  vertebrate  with  powers  of  locomotion; 
but  it  soon  takes  the  road  of  devolution  instead  of 
evolution;  it  attaches  itself  to  a  stone,  or  a  shell,  or 
other  fixed  object,  loses  its  special  sense  organs 
and  the  beginnings  of  a  backbone,  and  becomes  a 
"mere  rooted  bag  with  a  double  neck."  The  barna- 
cle takes  the  easy  downward  road  in  the  same  way, 
degenerating  from  a  free,  swimming,  six-legged, 
compound-eyed  creature,  like  a  young  crab  or  a 
shrimp,  into  a  mere  immovable  shellfish  attached 
to  a  rock  or  a  ship-bottom. 


The  main  factor  in  the  progress  of  evolution  is,  of 
course,  the  tendency  to  variation,  and  this  tend- 
ency seems  to  become  more  and  more  pronounced 
as  life  proceeds  and  becomes  more  complex.  It  is 
more  pronounced  in  the  higher  forms  than  in  the 
lower.  This  fact  doubtless  accounts  for  the  more 

273 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

rapid  strides  of  evolution  in  later  geologic  time. 
The  chances  to  win  become  greater  and  greater. 
More  and  more  doors  are  opened,  more  and  more 
new  ventures  are  made.  Where  the  invertebrate 
had  but  few  chances  of  becoming  a  vertebrate  in 
Silurian  time,  the  variations  were  so  slight  and  so 
slow,  the  reptile  had  many  more  chances  of  becom- 
ing a  mammal  in  Mesozoic  time,  because  the  prin- 
ciple of  variation  was  so  much  more  active. 

As  an  animal's  wants  increase,  the  more  strained 
will  be  its  relations  with  its  environment;  and,  the 
more  it  is  out  of  sympathy  with  its  environment, 
the  greater  will  be  the  variation.  The  cows  along 
the  St.  John's  River  in  Florida  spend  much  of  their 
time  knee-deep  or  deeper  in  the  water,  grazing  on 
the  grassy  bottom.  They  are  out  of  sympathy  with 
their  environment.  Should  this  continue  long 
enough,  no  doubt  these  cattle  will  begin  to  show 
some  marked  variation  toward  a  better  understand- 
ing between  themselves  and  the  St.  John's  River. 

When  we  reach  man,  the  tendency  to  variation 
is  more  pronounced  than  in  any  other  animal  — 
mental  variation.  Had  this  not  been  so,  man's  prog- 
ress had  been  much  slower.  The  rank  and  file  of 
mankind  have  been  led  forward  by  a  few  minds  that 
varied  vastly  from  the  common  type.  There  have 
been  favored  races  and  favored  states  and  favored 
ages  and  favored  families  in  this  respect  —  one 
brother  differing  from  another  as  day  from  night, 

274 


EVOLUTION 

mediocrity  every  now  and  then  blossoming  into 
genius. 

The  progress  of  man  must  have  been  very  slow 
even  after  he  got  up  off  from  all  fours.  When  he  hit 
upon  a  language  that  went  beyond  the  emotional 
language  or  cries  and  calls  of  the  lower  orders,  and 
stood  for  ideas,  mental  processes,  his  progress  must 
have  been  greatly  accelerated.  Then  when  he  in- 
vented tools  and  weapons  and  began  to  acquire 
some  mastery  over  outward  nature,  he  took  an- 
other tremendous  stride  forward.  Then  his  social 
and  family  mstincts  were  a  great  gain.  It  is  true  the 
lower  animals  have  these  and  yet  do  not  progress. 
In  man  there  is  from  the  first  a  new  capacity  — 
educability,  as  Lankester  calls  it  —  and  this  makes 
every  step  forward  an  incentive  to  another  step. 
Something  in  him  invented  a  language  beyond  that 
of  the  brutes;  this  reacted  upon  him  and  stimulated 
his  mental  growth.  The  family  and  social  life  reacted 
upon  him  and  stimulated  his  powers  of  organization 
and  awakened  his  spirit  of  altruism.  He  differs  from 
all  other  animals  in  the  nature  of  his  reactions. 
There  is  something  in  him  that  profits  by  all  his 
experiences.  He  learned  to  think.  What  a  stride  was 
that!  It  gave  him  the  use  of  fire,  of  the  wind,  of  the 
currents.  His  reaction  is  a  bound  upward.  He  began 
to  see  things  external  to  himself  and  to  consider 
his  relation  to  them.  In  his  language  he  stored  up 
mental  power  which  the  lower  animals  do  not.  He 

275 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

was  the  first  animal  to  see  things  as  they  are  apart 
from  himself.  We  see  this  in  his  first  rude  drawing? 
while  he  was  yet  a  cave-dweller,  and  in  the  orna- 
mentation of  his  weapons  and  tools.  He  was  the 
first  and  only  animal  to  see  wholes,  as  well  as  parts, 
to  see  the  landscape,  the  sky,  the  stars.  He  looked 
out  and  up.  Your  dog  heeds  the  rain  and  the  snow, 
but  he  does  not  heed  the  gathering  clouds;  he  sees 
the  fox  or  the  rabbit,  but  not  the  prospect  their 
course  opens  up  to  him;  he  profits  by  experience, 
but  he  does  not  accumulate  a  store  of  knowledge. 

When  man  first  developed  wonder,  awe,  rever- 
ence, superstition,  he  had  got  well  launched  upon 
his  career. 

How  the  darkness  deepens  as  we  go  back  into 
prehistoric  times.  Man's  rude  stone  implements 
shed  the  last  ray  of  light.  When  we  get  back  into 
geologic  time  all  is  black  night  save  as  the  strata 
reveal  the  remains  of  his  forbears. 


We  seem  to  see  life  like  a  traveler  on  the  road 
hastening  as  it  nears  the  goal.  Who  knows  how 
many  millions  of  years  it  lingered  with  the  first  low 
marine  forms,  or  how  many  with  the  first  inverte- 
brates, or  how  many  more  with  the  fishes,  or  with 
the  reptiles,  or  with  the  huge  mammalian  forms? 
It  seems  as  if  it  began  to  hurry  in  the  middle,  or 
Mesozoic,  period.  When  the  lemurs  and  baboons 
were  in  sight  in  the  Cenozoic  age,  it  quickened  its 

276 


EVOLUTION 

pace  still  more.  From  the  apelike  man  of  the  latter 
part  of  this  period  it  made  rapid  strides  till  the  first 
rude  man  appears  in  the  Quaternary  age.  His  re- 
mains appear  so  suddenly  as  to  give  some  color  to 
the  special  creation  theory. 

§ 

To  those  persons  born  and  educated  during  the 
last  thirty  or  forty  years  the  idea  of  evolution  and 
of  our  descent  from  some  lower  animal  form  cannot 
prove  so  new  and  startling  a  doctrine  as  it  was  to 
those  of  us  who  were  born  and  schooled  fifty  or 
more  years  ago.  These  things  are  in  the  air  now  and 
go  along  with  the  whole  progress  of  physical  science. 
But  prior  to  Darwin's  time,  and  long  after  the  pub- 
lication of  his  "Origin  of  Species,"  the  idea  of  our 
animal  ancestry  was  simply  shocking,  a;nd,  to  the 
vast  majority  of  minds,  unbelievable.  All  our  creeds 
and  traditions  and  most  of  our  science,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  our  instinctive  pride  of  origin,  stood  in  the 
way  of  its  acceptance.  Our  eyes  had  not  yet  been 
opened  to  the  true  wonders  of  nature  and  how 
divinity  hedges  us  about. 

§ 
All  through  the  early  geologic  ages  life  was  dif- 
fuse; a  steady  concentration  has  taken  place  as 
time  has  gone  on.  As  life  became  more  complex  it 
became  less  broadcast  and  haphazard.  This  was 
the  condition  of  progress;  more  organization,  more 
division  of  labor,  more  specialization;  from  vague, 

277 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

irresponsible  mob-life  to  the  unity  of  organized  and 
law-directed  life,  as  in  human  progress;  from 
myriads  to  scores  or  hundreds;  from  the  chance 
of  winds  and  waters  to  parental  care  and  protection. 
The  first  life  multiplied  by  fission  or  division; 
later  the  stage  of  egg-laying  was  reached.  The  fish 
lays  thousands  of  eggs  and  trusts  to  luck;  the 
higher  insects  such  as  the  ants  and  bees  lay  few  eggs 
and  care  for  them  and  nurse  the  young.  The  more 
intelligence,  the  more  restricted  is  reproduction. 
The  element  of  chance  has  less  play;  there  is  less 
waste,  more  system  and  less  risk.  The  progress  of 
nature  in  this  respect  suggests  the  progress  from  rude 
pioneer  life  to  our  more  specialized  and  intensive 
life.  The  fish  produces  thousands  of  eggs,  the  am- 
phibian hundreds,  the  reptile  tens,  the  birds  five, 
the  mammals  one.  Natiu'e  is  lavish  only  with  her 
lower  forms;  free  with  her  pennies,  but  stingy  with 
her  dollars. 

§ 

"There  is  no  innate  or  necessary  tendency  in  each 
being  to  its  own  advancement  in  the  scale  of  organ- 
ization," says  Darwin;  yet  he  says  there  is  in  all 
living  forms  an  inherent  tendency  to  variation  — 
that  is,  to  push  on  and  out  in  all  directions,  an 
inherent  activity  or  push  of  life,  just  as  there  is  in  a 
fountain  to  flow  and  make  itseK  a  channel.  Is  not 
this  the  necessary  tendency  that  Darwin  denies? 
The  fountain  may  vary  its  course  every  rod  by  rea- 

278 


EVOLUTION 

son  of  obstacles  in  its  way,  but  it  would  not  vary  at 
all  were  it  not  for  the  push  of  the  water  behind  it. 
The  inherent  tendency  to  vary  implies  an  inherent 
force  or  effort.  Only  living  beings  struggle;  it  is  the 
characteristic  of  life  to  struggle,  to  push  on.  The 
mechanical  forces  do  not  struggle,  they  clash  and 
seek  repose;  vital  forces  struggle  and  seek  ascend- 
ancy; the  body  struggles  against  disease  germs,  and 
the  germs  struggle  against  the  body;  it  is  a  trial  of 
strength. 


What  natural  cause  keeps  any  species  of  animal 
in  check,  or  accounts  for  its  superabundance,  is  a 
question  not  easily  answered.  Take  our  common 
red  weasel,  for  example:  it  is  very  hardy  and  pro- 
lific; it  has  few  or  no  natural  enemies;  it  is  active 
and  fearless;  it  can  climb  trees  and  is  nimble  on 
the  ground;  it  preys  upon  a  great  variety  of  small 
rodents  and  birds,  having  such  power  over  them 
that  it  overtakes  and  kills  the  rabbit,  which  is  much 
more  fleet  of  foot;  and  yet  it  is  one  of  our  rare 
animals;  one  would  say  there  are  hundreds  of 
rats,  chipmunks,  red  squirrels,  and  rabbits,  to  one 
weasel.  Though  I  live  in  the  country  and  spend  much 
time  in  the  fields  and  woods,  I  do  not  see  on  an 
average  one  weasel  in  a  year.  What  keeps  them  in 
check?  Some,  to  me,  unknown  factor.  In  our  coun- 
try the  flesh-eating  animals  are  rare  in  comparison 
to  the   non-flesh-eaters,   or  to  the  miscellaneous 

279 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

feeders.  The  more  varied  an  animal's  diet,,  the  more 
the  animal  abounds.  How  vastly  more  numerous 
the  crows  than  the  hawks !  The  crow  is  an  omnivo- 
rous feeder.  Rats  and  mice  are  omnivorous  feeders. 
Bears  have  a  wider  dietary  than  wolves  and  cats. 
Squirrels  are  wide  feeders.  Weasels  are  very  narrow 
feeders;  they  are  blood-suckers.  The  purely  insectiv- 
orous birds  are  less  numerous  than  the  birds  that 
feed  on  both  seeds  and  insects.  The  English  sparrow 
is  an  omnivorous  feeder,  hence  its  numbers.  Some 
birds  seem  to  have  a  fuller  measure  of  life  than 
others,  —  our  robin,  for  instance.  What  a  hustler 
—  breeding  three  times  during  the  season ! 


Life  to  most  creatures  is  both  a  battle  and  a  festi- 
val. The  Darwinian  struggle  for  existence  is  a  battle 
of  varying  degrees  of  intensity,  while  the  breeding- 
instinct,  which  is  the  central  and  dominating  fact 
in  all  animal  life,  gives  rise  to  the  festival.  True  it  is 
that  the  festival  is  at  times  red  with  battle,  and  the 
battle  may  have  gay  and  festive  moments,  but  on 
the  whole  the  two  phases  of  life  are  pretty  clearly 
defined. 


How  are  we  going  to  reconcile  the  rule  of  uni- 
versal nature,  that  might  makes  right,  that  the 
strong  do  and  must  prevail  over  the  weak,  with  the 
ethical  and  individual  standards  by  which  we  try 
to  conduct  our  lives  .^^  Is  there  any  ground  of  recon- 

280 


EVOLUTION 

ciliation?  Is  the  idea  as  unthinkable  as  that  two  and 
two  make  five?  or  as  that  a  part  is  greater  than  the 
whole? 

The  whole  tremendous  drama  of  evolution,  from 
the  first  unicellular  life  up  to  man,  and  from  the 
dawn  of  history  to  tlie  present  time,  illustrates  and 
confirms  tlie  idea  that  power  does  prevail  and  has 
prevafled  through  all  time,  in  the  organic  and  in  the 
inorganic  world.  The  weak  go  to  the  wall,  the  battle 
is  to  the  strong,  the  race  is  to  the  fleet,  the  wind 
is  not  tempered  to  the  shorn  lamb.  Inferior  races 
give  way  to  superior,  savage  man  goes  down  before 
the  more  civilized,  science  crushes  ignorance  and 
superstition. 

Professor  Osborn  in  his  "Men  of  the  Old  Stone 
Age  "  shows  how  race  succeeded  race  in  Europe  tens 
of  thousands  of  years  ago,  and  that  a  growth  in 
brain  was  a  growth  in  power.  Do  we  not  see  that  in 
every  community,  every  neighborhood,  the  strong 
men  prevail  over  the  weak  —  brains,  knowledge, 
judgment,  accumulate  the  wealth,  build  up  the  big 
business,  shape  the  policy  of  the  state  and  the  na- 
tion? It  is  as  inevitable  as  are  gravity  and  cohesion. 
The  ideal  in  this  respect  is  the  man  who  in  the  com- 
petition of  life  succeeds  by  perfectly  fau*  means,  — 
by  superior  industry,  skill,  judgment,  economy,  — 
who  not  only  lifts  himself  up,  but  carries  the  com- 
munity up  with  him.  That  success  is  often  attained 
by  unfair  means  does  not  invalidate  the  principle. 

281 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

The  confusion  and  contradiction  in  our  minds  on 
the  question  of  might  versus  right  begins  when  we 
introduce  our  moral  standards  into  universal  prob- 
lems. Right  is  a  relative  and  limited  term.  Nature 
outside  of  man  knows  it  not;  she  knows  only  power, 
progress,  success.  Right  and  wrong  apply  to  our 
conscious  human  conduct,  and  not  to  the  processes 
of  Nature.  It  is  wrong  for  me  consciously  to  cheat 
my  neighbor;  it  is  right  for  me  to  be  a  better  farmer, 
a  better  mechanic,  a  better  tradesman  than  he  is, 
and  thus  win  over  him  in  the  competition  of  life. 
Natural  right  and  moral  right  are  two  separate 
things.  It  is  not  wrong  for  fire  to  burn  us,  or  floods 
to  drown  us,  or  disease  to  consume  us;  it  is  only 
naturaj.  Winds  and  waves  are  guiltless,  no  matter 
how  much  we  suffer  from  them.  When  there  is  no 
conscience,  there  is  neither  right  nor  wrong.  Our 
natural  rights  are  limited  to  the  use  of  the  means 
by  which  we  can  make  the  most  of  ourselves  with- 
out hindrance  to  others. 

Where,  then,  in  human  affairs  are  we  justified  in 
saying  that  might  makes  right  .^^  Only  in  those  cases 
where  results  flow  from  causes  that  are  over  and 
above  our  conscious  wills  and  purpose.  Power  will 
make  itself  felt.  Natural  law  rules  largely  in  the 
human  realm. 

Shall  the  meek  inherit  the  earth?  Can  they?  Sup- 
pose the  law  of  love,  of  good- will,  of  cooperation,  of 
doing  to  others  as  you  would  be  done  by,  had  pre- 

282 


EVOLUTION 

vailed  throughout  the  biological  and  historical  ages, 
instead  of  the  rule  of  the  strong,  of  the  dominance 
of  might  over  right  as  we  see  right;  suppose  one 
species  had  not  preyed  upon  another,  the  bird  upon 
the  insect,  the  cat  upon  the  mouse,  the  lion  upon  the 
antelope,  the  carnivorous  upon  the  herbivorous  and 
the  graminivorous,  or  one  tribe  of  man  upon  an  in- 
ferior tribe;  instead  of  all  this,  suppose  the  rule  of 
justice,  of  fair  play,  as  we  see  them,  —  gentleness, 
meekness,  pity,  the  strong  giving  way  to  the  weak, 
the  little  fishes  favored  by  the  big,  —  what  would 
have  been  the  probable  effects  upon  the  course  of 
organic  development?  Could  the  process  of  evolu- 
tion have  resulted  in  the  higher  forms?  If  all  Na- 
ture's ways  were  ways  of  gentleness  and  justice 
and  love,  where  would  the  living  world  be  standing 
to-day? 

Or,  if  we  confine  our  consideration  to  man  alone, 
what  would  his  development  have  been  had  the  rule 
of  love  and  disinterestedness  prevailed?  Could  there 
have  been  any  progress?  If  the  Cro-Magnon  man, 
of  which  Professor  Osborn  writes  so  lucidly,  had 
not  forced  to  the  wall  the  earlier  type  of  men, 
would  Europe  be  what  it  is  to-day? 

Does  not  our  supposition  strike  at  the  very  foun- 
dation of  development?  Would  there  have  been 
any  superior  races,  any  ascent  in  the  scale  of  life, 
had  not  the  strong  prevailed  over  the  weak? 

Does  the  question  of  right  and  wrong  come  into 

283 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

the  consideration  of  the  matter?  Do  our  human 
standards  apply  in  the  struggle  of  organic  evolution? 
Is  it  right  for  the  bird  to  devour  the  worm  or  for  one 
insect  to  destroy  another?  or  for  the  big  fish  to  eat 
up  the  little  fish?  or  for  the  wolf  to  devour  the 
lamb?  See  to  what  straits  our  standards  of  right  and 
wrong  lead  us!  In  nature  that  is  right  which  suc- 
ceeds; unless  might  is  successful  it  is  not  might  — 
the  other  side  is  might,  and  therefore  right. 


Start  this  flame  of  life  going  and  it  goes  on.  The 
world  is  full  of  matter  that  is  combustible  to  it;  the 
very  foundations  of  the  globe  are  its  material.  But 
how  to  get  the  first  spark?  The  Promethean  fire  we 
do  not  need  to  steal  from  heaven;  we  can  kindle  it 
by  mechanical  and  chemical  means  any  time;  but 
the  fire  of  life  we  cannot  kindle.  We  have  to  evoke 
it  from  heaven,  by  means  of  a  miracle.  And  how  it 
differs  from  the  other!  The  fire  of  life  burns  its  own 
ashes  over  and  over.  Yet  Science  asks.  Is  there  any 
more  reality  to  vitalism  than  there  would  be  to 
igneousism? 


The  need  begets  the  tool  and  the  tool  begets  the 
need.  The  need  begat  the  saw  and  hammer.  There 
was  this  activity,  this  push  of  life,  this  feeling  of 
struggle  behind  it.  Man  would  have  had  no  tools  or 
weapons  or  inventions  had  he  not  had  a  ceaseless 
and  irrepressible  feeling  or  desire  to  extend  himself, 

284 


EVOLUTION 

to  subdue  and  possess  the  world.  Whence  this  feel- 
ing? Is  it,  too,  of  mechanical  origin?  Is  it  the  same 
throughout  organic  nature?  The  seed  does  not  feel 
the  need  of  wings,  but  something  feels  it.  All  seeds 
need  to  be  distributed,  hence  their  hooks,  and  wings, 
and  springs,  and  other  devices.  The  nuts  need  to 
be  distributed  also,  and  the  animals  do  it  in  their 
own  behoof,  and  Nature  gets  what  drops  from  their 
tables.  The  Jays  and  crows  lend  wings  to  many  nuts. 
The  red  squirrel  lends  feet.  The  push  of  life  again, 
the  procreant  urge  and  urge  of  Nature.  The  expans- 
ive forces  of  inorganic  nature  are  mechanical,  but 
this  push  of  life  is  another  matter.  The  necessity 
for  teeth  begat  teeth,  but  there  would  have  been  no 
necessity  had  it  not  been  for  this  expansive  or  pro- 
gressive force  of  life,  this  push  of  development;  and 
whence  this  comes,  who  knows?  This  push  is  not  in 
inorganic  matter. 


When  we  look  at  the  problem  of  life  through  the 
eyes  of  the  idealist  and  visualize  its  phenomena,  we 
seem  to  see  life  as  something  incalculable  and  myste- 
rious in  nature.  It  appears  like  a  visitant  from  an- 
other sphere.  It  seems  utterly  foreign  to  all  merely 
mechanical  and  chemical  processes  as  we  know 
them  in  unorganized  matter.  These  forces  go  their 
unceasing  round  seeking  a  stable  equilibrium,  the 
vital  forces  go  through  their  cycle  seeking  an  un- 
stable equilibrium.  Life  breaks  up  the  old  routine 

285 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

of  the  meclianical  and  chemical  forces.  It  does  not 
annul  them,  but  it  makes  use  of  them  for  its  own 
behoof.  See  these  forces  careering  over  the  earth's 
surface  for  untold  ages,  going  their  endless  and  fate- 
ful rounds,  dissolving  and  re-forming  the  rocks, 
making  the  soil,  clearing  the  atmosphere,  depositing 
the  clay-banks,  the  sand-banks,  the  gravel-banks, 
the  marl-banks,  the  phosphate-banks,  scooping  out 
the  valleys,  laying  the  foundations  of  the  hills,  col- 
lecting the  waters  into  the  rivers  and  lakes  and  seas, 
establishing  the  weather-system  of  the  globe,  pro- 
viding for  the  rains,  the  snows,  the  dews,  —  matter 
and  energy  supreme,  knowing  no  master,  the  only 
activities  in  matter  mechanical  and  chemical.  Then 
suddenly,  or  gradually,  as  you  please,  a  new  activity 
appears,  the  vital,  and  after  long  ages  a  new  power, 
the  mind  and  soul  of  man.  The  mechanical  and 
chemical  forces  have  found  their  master.  Man  turns 
them  into  new  channels,  or  reverses  them  and  takes 
all  sorts  of  liberties  with  them.  He  makes  them  do 
his  work,  he  combines  and  coordinates  them  in  a 
way  they  were  never  combined  before.  Psychic 
power  is  the  master  of  the  physico-chemical  power. 


Life  creeps  or  swims  before  it  can  walk,  and  it 
walks  before  it  can  fly.  It  feels  before  it  can  see,  and 
it  sees  before  it  can  hear  or  smell.  It  has  sensation 
before  it  has  perception.  It  has  instincts  and  reflex 
actions  long  before  it  has  consciousness  and  reason. 

286 


EVOLUTION 

It  has  nerve-ganglia  and  a  spinal  cord  long  before  it 
has  a  brain.  It  has  a  notochord  before  it  has  a  spinal 
cord.  It  feeds  before  it  has  a  stomach  or  a  mouth;  it 
moves  before  it  has  limbs.  It  has  a  body  before  it 
has  a  head;  it  multiplies  before  it  has  sex. 

The  muscles  of  our  trunk  are  inherited  from  the 
tubular  body- wall  of  worms;  the  shoulder  and  thigh 
muscles  were  developed  by  fish  to  move  the  fins. 
Arms  and  legs  grew  stronger  through  a  long  series  of 
generations  of  amphibians  and  reptiles.  Hands  and 
fingers  were  developed  by  arboreal  animals.  These 
mature  in  the  same  order  in  the  human  child  to- 
day. Our  muscles  grow  younger  as  we  pass  from  the 
trunk  outward  to  the  fingers  or  downward  to  the 
toes.  The  muscles  of  the  neck  are  very  old,  those  of 
the  jaws  are  younger,  those  of  the  tongue  and  lips 
and  the  muscles  of  expression  are  younger  still. 

"Late  in  Tertiary  times  primitive  man  or  his 
anthropoid  ancestor  forsook  the  trees  and  lived 
upon  the  ground." 

The  gigantic  forms  in  animal  and  in  vegetable  life 
largely  gave  place  to  lesser  forms  in  both  spheres. 
With  the  advent  of  the  lesser  forms  in  animal  life 
came  an  increase  in  the  size  of  the  brain,  muscular 
power  declined  and  a  new  kind  of  power,  nerve 
power,  came  in.  Yet  not  in  all  forms;  the  horse  went 
up  from  small  to  large,  so  did  the  elephant,  so  did 
man,  and  a  few  other  forms. 

Size  and  power  seem  by  no  means  to  have  been 

287 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

the  determining  factors  in  the  evolution  of  species. 
The  early  gigantic  forms  all  disappeared,  and  lesser 
forms  finally  came  into  possession  of  the  earth. 

How  the  machinery  for  eating  and  fighting  devel- 
oped before  the  machinery  for  thought  developed! 
Behold  the  size  of  the  under  parts  of  the  heads 
of  the  mammals  below  us  —  all  jaw  and  mouth. 
When  the  cow  or  the  horse  pauses  and  looks  at  you, 
—  no,  they  do  not  look,  they  stare,  —  when  the  cow 
or  the  horse  pauses  and  stares  at  you  in  that  blank 
kind  of  way,  one  wonders  what  is  passing  in  that 
small  cupful  of  brains  at  the  top  of  their  long,  bony 
heads.  Not  thought  surely,  yet  some  kind  of  molecu- 
lar activity.  Yet  the  bird  has  a  much  larger  brain, 
in  proportion  to  its  body,  than  has  man,  and  the  ant 
much  larger  than  the  bird.  Our  yea-and-nay  meth- 
ods are  inadequate  to  deal  with  nature. 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

THE  bluebird  is  a  bird  without  fault.  All  its 
ways  and  sounds  and  habits  and  looks  are 
pleasing.  It  neither  eats  your  fruit  like  the  robin, 
nor  daubs  your  porch  with  mud  like  the  phoebe, 
nor  brings  a  plague  of  bird  lice  as  the  latter  often 
does.  It  is  half-domestic  like  robin  and  phoebe 
without  any  of  their  vices.  It  does  not  awake  you 
in  the  early  morning,  nor  tease  your  ear  at  any  time 
of  day  with  its  persistently  reiterated  notes.  As  an 
insect-destroyer  it  must  equal  any  of  them,  and  as 
a  harbinger  of  spring  it  is  the  most  welcome  of  them 
all.  It  comes  to  its  nest  and  young  in  the  hollow  of 
the  limb  on  the  corner  of  my  porch  as  softly  as  a 
shadow,  and  when  feeding  its  young  it  comes  about 
every  minute  nearly  all  day,  till  the  twilight  deep- 
ens. All  its  ways  are  ways  of  gentleness.  It  is  a  bird 
without  snap  or  emphasis  or  sharpness  of  any  kind. 
I  always  visualize  its  note  as  blue  like  its  back.  Its 
wing  gestures  are  as  pleasing  as  its  note.  The  bird 
has  the  quality  of  the  thrush,  with  a  touch  of 
something  cerulean. 

Certain  of  our  familiar  birds,  like  the  wren,  get 
on  your  nerves.  Even  the  darling  song  sparrow  will, 
at  the  height  of  its  season,  go  through  its  repertoire 

289 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

of  five  songs  before  your  door  till  you  are  fain  to 
cry  out,  "Oh,  do  take  a  rest!"  But  from  first  to 
last,  from  April  to  October,  or  November,  the  pres- 
ence and  the  voice  of  the  bluebird  has  the  effect 
of  harmony  and  repose  —  soothing,  tranquillizing. 
Not  a  song-bird,  strictly  speaking,  it  does  not  strike 
an  attitude  and  lift  up  its  voice  in  a  definite  series 
of  notes,  like  the  song  sparrow,  yet  its  every  sound 
and  call  is  musical,  and  its  every  movement  har- 
monious. Our  fine  songsters  play  their  parts  well, 
but  their  period  of  song  is  brief,  while  the  bluebird 
—  well,  is  always  the  bluebird.  It  keeps  its  tone 
and  quality  the  whole  season.  How  engaging  is  the 
habit  it  has  in  late  September  or  October  of  coming 
back  to  its  deserted  nesting-places  and  lingering 
fondly  about  them !  One  cannot  be  certain  whether 
it  is  the  parent  birds,  or  some  of  the  young,  that 
return.  They  peep  into  the  cavity,  warble  softly  to 
each  other,  and  then  take  turns  entering  it  briefly. 
It  is  emphatically  a  home  bird.  In  my  bird  heaven 
the  bluebird  shall  occupy  the  nearest  porch  and 
shall  always  comfort  me  mth  his  gentleness  and 
coniposure.  I  should  tire  of  the  Old- World  lark  and 
the  nightingale  as  hourly  companions;  they  are  too 
sharp  and  vociferous;  but  the  bluebird  is  as  sooth- 
ing as  the  blue  sky  itself. 


The  most  amusing  bluff  that  I  know  in  wild  na- 
ture is  that  put  up  by  the  male  wasp  when  you  seize 

290 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

him  in  your  hand  and  he  makes  believe  sting.  He 
goes  through  with  an  exact  series  of  movements 
that  ought  to  cause  you  to  drop  him  as  you  would 
a  red-hot  coal.  He  curves  his  body  and  thrusts  out 
the  stinging  end  right  and  left  most  viciously,  feel- 
ing for  a  vulnerable  place  on  your  flesh  and  pro- 
truding a  sort  of  stinger-scabbard  minus  the  stinger. 
The  sight  of  it  all  fairly  makes  one  wince.  Of  course, 
he  does  not  know  he  is  bluffing,  there  is  no  such 
word  in  his  dictionary,  but  he  seems  to  think  he  is 
punishing  you  severely.  It  is  as  if  a  soldier  in  battle 
were  firing  blank  cartridges  without  knowing  it. 
You  may  know  the  male  wasp  by  his  yellow  face. 
Beware  of  the  black-faced  ones. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  make-believe  in  the  play 
of  animals,  but  I  recall  nothing  analogous  to  this  bit 
of  serious  acting  of  the  stingless  wasp.  Certain  bugs 
will  feign  death  and  drop  to  the  ground,  but  I  know 
of  no  mammal  that  will  do  so.  To  decoy  their  ene- 
mies away  from  their  nests  and  young,  ground- 
building  birds  will  feign  lameness  and  paralysis,  but 
this  is  an  instinct  that  serves  a  different  purpose 
than  that  of  the  stingless  sting  of  the  male  wasp. 


As  Nature  has  dowered  man  with  more  and 
higher  gifts  than  she  has  any  other  creature,  so  it 
may  be  said  that  she  has,  on  the  other  hand,  been 
more  cruel  with  him  than  with  any  other  animal. 
More  enemies  beset  him,  more  hostile  germs  prey 

291 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

upon  him  than  upon  any  other  creature.  His  Hst  of 
dangerous  diseases,  from  which  the  lower  animals 
are  practically  immune,  is  a  long  one.  He  pays  a  big 
price  for  his  gift  of  reason.  He  makes  more  mistakes 
and  suffers  more  accidents  than  any  other  creature. 
He  has  invented  tools  and  explosives  and  he  is 
maimed  or  blown  to  pieces  by  them.  He  has  in- 
vented destructive  weapons  and  he  is  the  victim  of 
devastating  wars;  he  has  conquered  the  sea  at  the 
risk  of  shipwrecks  and  destruction;  he  has  at  last 
conquered  the  air  and  in  so  doing  has  opened  the 
way  to  new  failures  and  catastrophes.  Every  advan- 
tage has  its  price;  every  new  conquest  has  its  attend- 
ant perils.  Human  reason  takes  man  out  of  the  safe 
round  of  the  uneventful  lives  of  the  lower  orders; 
new  enemies,  new  perils,  new  anguish,  are  the  prices 
paid  for  new  achievements. 

§ 

The  cunning  of  the  fox  is  proverbial,  but  see  how 
his  wit  fails  him  imder  absolutely  new  conditions! 
Dan  Beard  tells,  in  his  delightful  "Animal  Book," 
of  two  tame  red  foxes  that  he  once  had  and  that  he 
kept  chained  together.  At  night  they  used  to  prowl 
about  the  neighborhood  a  good  deal  and  they  fre- 
quently came  to  grief  in  this  way;  they  would  each 
try  to  go  through  separate  holes  in  the  fence  or 
hedge,  when,  of  course,  the  chain  would  bring  them 
up  short;  and  they  never  learned  the  trick  of  one 
following  the  other  through  the  same  hole.  A  mere 

292 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

fraction  of  the  cunning  and  sagacity  that  they 
showed  in  the  Hne  of  their  inherited  instincts  would 
have  led  them  to  do  this.  But  the  chain  was  a  new 
thing;  artificial  conditions  had  been  imposed  upon 
them;  there  had  been  no  chains  and  collars  in  the 
fox  traditions;  hence  their  inability  to  extricate 
themselves  from  the  conditions  in  which  these 
things  involved  them. 

And  yet  the  fox  knows  pretty  well  how  to  deal 
with  a  new  thing  in  the  shape  of  a  steel  trap.  Yes, 
because  the  trap  awakens  his  inborn  cunning  and 
suspicion,  while  the  chain  that  held  Dan  Beard's 
foxes  got  them  into  difficulties  that  had  no  such 
effect,  and  that  called  for  powers  of  reflection  rather 
than  traits  of  cunning. 

The  lower  animals  do  not  reflect,  do  not  return 
upon  themselves  and  consider  the  means  to  an  end. 
When  they  use  the  means  it  is  from  an  impulse, 
and  not  from  a  thought.  Do  you  suppose,  for  in- 
stance, that  the  oriole  has  considered  the  advantage 
of  strings  and  horsehairs  in  the  building  of  its  nest.^* 
or  the  cliff  swallows  the  advantage  of  clay  mud  over 
muck  or  other  materials  .^^ 


Who  that  has  seen  trained  seals  has  not  been 
struck  with  what  appears  to  be  their  remarkable 
intelligence.?  Yet  the  Bering  Sea  seal  commissioners 
had  this  experience  with  them:  At  the  killing  time 
they  tried  to  separate  the  young  males  or  "kill- 

293 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

ables"  from  the  old  ones  of  the  same  band  by  driv- 
ing the  herd  through  a  wooden  chute  or  runway, 
with  two  valveHke  doors,  a  small  one  and  a  large 
one,  at  the  end.  The  small  door  would  open  for  the 
small  seals,  and  the  large  door  for  the  large  ones. 
But  the  seals  persisted  in  following  one  another. 
The  most  experienced  males  would  beat  their  noses 
against  a  closed  door  through  which  they  had  seen 
the  seal  before  them  just  pass.  That  the  door  had 
been  shut,  and  a<nother,  larger,  one  opened  beside  it 
made  no  difference. 


Some  friends  of  mine  caught  a  fish  called  a  sea- 
robin  and  kept  it  confined  in  a  large  pan  of  water 
for  a  day  and  a  night.  The  fish  continually  swam 
round  and  round  in  a  circle  in  the  pan,  seeking  an 
outlet,  so  that  when  they  finally  carried  it  out  in  the 
bay  and  let  it  go,  it  continued  to  swim  around  in  a 
circle.  They  carried  it  farther  out,  but  it  was  still 
confined  in  the  pan  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  and 
they  left  it. 

§ 

Sometimes  in  confinement  an  animal,  if  left 
alone,  will  give  us  a  glimpse  of  its  real  mental  make- 
up. I  am  thinking  of  Mr.  Beebe's  account  of  the 
wood  ibis  at  the  Bronx.  The  bird  would  "stand  in 
a  cement-lined  pool  and  for  hours  patiently  tap  the 
bottom  with  its  foot,  trembling  with  eagerness  the 
while,  as  he  watches  for  impossible  worms  to  come 

294 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

to  the  surface."  The  bird  at  such  times  is  a  mere 
automaton,  impelled  by  its  inherited  memory.  No 
doubt  that  in  the  laboratory  this  habit  could  be 
broken  up,  and  a  new  habit  formed  in  its  place. 


One  autumn  morning  just  at  break  of  day  a  friend 
of  mine  was  sitting  in  a  hemlock-wood  beside  a  little 
trout-brook,  waiting  for  partridges  to  begin  to  move. 
As  he  sat  there  he  heard  something  coming  up  the 
stream  toward  him,  splashing  in  the  water  and 
rattling  the  stones.  Presently  he  saw  a  raccoon 
coming  up  the  stream,  turning  over  the  stones  in 
the  shallow  water,  and  feeding  on  something  be- 
neath them.  What  was  surprising,  the  coon  turned 
the  stones  over  with  his  nose,  and  not  with  his 
paws,  as  one  would  have  expected.  So  deft  and 
handy  is  the  coon  with  his  paws,  and  yet  he  rooted 
the  stones  with  his  nose  like  a  pig. 

§ 

Cowboys  tell  me  that  when  one  of  their  herd  gets 
mired,  and  they  have  to  rope  it  and  drag  it  out,  the 
first  impulse  of  the  beast  is  to  gore  its  rescuers.  It 
has  no  conception  of  the  service  that  has  been  ren- 
dered it.  The  mire  and  the  ropes  and  the  rough 
usage  enrage  it,  and  it  seeks  to  avenge  itself  upon 
the  herdsmen.  Just  so  will  a  dog  or  a  cat,  caught 
in  a  trap  try  to  bite  the  hand  that  liberates  it. 


295 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 


What  an  uncertain  and  accidental  thing  seems  the 
gift  of  long  life !  It  comes  to  the  just  and  to  the  in- 
just,  to  the  wise  and  to  the  foolish.  It  is  as  indis- 
criminating  as  the  rainfall.  I  see  almost  daily  a  man 
walking  the  street  here,  going  to  a  saloon  for  his 
glass  of  grog,  who  is  ninety-three.  He  never  had 
much  intellect,  and  it  seems  to  have  grown  less  and 
less  as  the  years  have  passed.  In  my  youth  I  knew 
a  man,  a  very  ordinary  person,  who  lived  to  be 
considerably  over  a  hundred;  he  lived  alone  in 
his  last  years,  and  lived  much  like  a  beast.  The 
length  of  his  years  was  no  measure  of  his  worth 
to  himself  or  to  his  fellows.  Only  recently  a  man  in 
Sullivan  County,  a  common  laborer,  but  a  worthy 
man,  is  said  to  have  reached  the  great  age  of  one 
hundred  and  twelve  years.  I  know  a  sculptor  who 
went  up  there  and  made  a  bust  of  him.  An  old 
fellow  in  my  native  town  lived  to  be  eighty-three, 
and  was  drunk  much  of  the  time,  often  lying  out 
half  the  night  in  cold  and  storms.  I  happen  to  think 
of  him  now  because  I  saw  his  name  recently  in  the 
cemetery.  Sir  William  Temple  relates  that  he  had 
known  two  persons  who  lived  to  be  over  one  hun- 
dred and  twelve,  a  man  and  a  woman  —  the  latter 
a  servant,  the  former  a  common  laborer. 

On  the  other  hand,  how  many  men  of  invaluable 
service  to  the  world  fall  by  the  wayside  before  they 
have  lived  out  half  their  days.    If,  with  his  tre- 

296 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

mendous  vitality,  Roosevelt  had  also  had  the  gift 
of  length  of  days,  our  debt  to  him  would  doubtless 
have  been  even  greater  than  it  is.  Surely  the  gift  of 
length  of  days  is  neither  a  wage  nor  a  reward  of 
merit.  You  have  it,  or  you  do  not  have  it,  and  the 
Eternal  is  indifferent.  It  is  hard  to  kill  a  man  who 
lias  it,  and  it  cannot  be  bestowed  upon  a  man  who 
has  it  not.  How  vain  to  try  to  find  anything  like 
our  prudence,  our  economies,  our  foresight  in  the 
ways  of  Nature !  Nature  is  a  spendthrift  and  a  miser, 
both  at  the  same  time. 


Nearly  every  season,  in  early  fall,  after  days  of 
wind  and  cloud  and  rain,  there  comes  one  of  those 
still,  clear,  breathless  mornings  —  the  first  fall 
hush  in  nature.  Every  sound  by  man  or  beast  stands 
out  on  the  great  background  of  silence.  The  distant 
barking  of  a  dog,  or  lowing  of  kine,  or  cawing  of 
crows,  carries  far.  The  very  air  seems  resonant.  I 
hear  the  clucking  or  chucking  of  a  chipmunk  far  off. 
Then  the  call  of  a  solitary  robin  strikes  my  ear.  A 
moment  later  from  the  orchard  comes  the  bur-r-r-r-r 
of  a  red  squirrel.  Then  I  hear  the  scream  of  the 
jay  in  the  beech- woods.  The  slightest  sound  breaks 
the  great  stillness  as  a  pebble  starts  the  ripples  on 
a  smooth  surface  of  water.  The  fog  in  the  valley 
barely  stirs,  like  a  half -awakened  sleeper.  It  has  not 
energy  enough  to  creep  up  the  hill.  A  few  mornings 
ago  it  wallowed  up  to  our  doorstep  and  lay  down 

297 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

upon  it  for  half  an  hour.  It  was  an  unwelcome  vis- 
itor; but  this  morning  the  sun  is  working  its  magic 
upon  it  and  will  leave  no  trace  behind.  In  certain 
conditions  of  the  atmosphere  the  valley  fog  is  slowly- 
burned  up  where  it  lies;  at  other  times  it  ebbs  and 
flows,  rises  and  sinks  at  intervals  like  the  lava  in  a 
crater.  It  comes  up  over  the  hills  three  or  four 
hundred  feet  above  its  night  level,  then  withdraws, 
then  returns.  It  does  this  several  times  as  if  seeking 
a  way  to  escape.  This  ghost  of  a  lake  or  river  is  as 
uneasy  when  day  comes  as  any  other  ghost,  but  by 
or  before  ten  o'clock  it  seems  to  pull  itself  together 
and  begins  to  rise  upward  in  scattered  flocks  or 
small  clouds,  reaching  up  to  its  kindred,  the  first 
clouds  that  are  passing  over.  It  is  precisely  like  a 
flock  of  geese  rising  upward  to  join  other  flocks 
that  are  calling  down  to  them  from  above. 

The  fog  forms  in  the  valley  at  night,  just  as  water 
would  accumulate  there  if  Noah's  flood  were  to 
come  again,  but  not  for  the  same  reason,  or  under 
the  same  law.  The  water  seeks  its  level,  and  its 
level  is  at  the  lowest  point  within  reach.  The  level 
of  the  fog  is  in  the  stratum  of  air  where  the  clouds 
float.  Hence,  after  all,  one  may  say  the  fog  seeks  its 
level  also,  but  it  is  up  and  not  down.  The  fog  is  only 
a  finer  rain.  It  is  white  because  of  the  air  it  holds. 
Its  minute  particles  of  water  become  little  balloons 
inflated  with  air;  it  would  take  thousands  of  them 
to  make  one  raindrop.  Both  rain  and  fog  are  the 

298 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

result  of  a  chill  or  a  fall  in  temperature.  In  these 
mountain  valleys,  where  the  sky  is  clear  and  the  air 
still,  a  fog  is  pretty  sure  to  form  during  the  night. 
The  colder  air  flows  down  into  the  valley  and  its 
moisture  is  condensed  into  fog. 

Now  at  a  quarter  after  nine  o'clock  the  fog  has  be- 
come a  mere  wraith.  It  is  forming  a  thin,  frail  stra- 
tum above  the  valley  beneath  which  I  can  see  that 
the  air  is  clear,  save  a  bluish  haze  which  will  linger 
a  little  while  after  all  signs  of  fog  have  vanished. 

The  fog  in  the  valley  is  only  the  phenomenon  of 
the  dew  on  a  different  scale.  There  is  no  dew  on  a 
windy  or  cloudy  night,  or  during  times  of  drought. 
Such  things  set  one  to  thinking  about  the  circuit 
of  the  waters  —  how  many  forms  this  element 
assumes,  and  how  much  depends  upon  it  —  from 
the  earth  to  the  clouds,  through  the  agency  of  the 
sun,  from  the  clouds  to  the  earth  in  the  rains  and 
the  dews,  from  the  earth  to  the  sea  again  through 
the  channels  of  streams  and  rivers.  On  this  round 
it  figures  in  the  rainbow,  frowns  or  flushes  in  the 
clouds,  glances  like  a  diamond  in  the  dewdrop, 
courses  through  the  cells  of  plants  and  trees,  and 
through  the  heart  and  veins  of  man,  and  of  all  ani- 
mal life  —  terrible  in  floods  and  waves,  sublime  in 
the  great  cataracts,  a  bridal  veil  in  the  mountain 
waterfalls,  a  magic  mirror  in  placid  lakes  and  rivers, 
transporting,  transforming;  a  ministering  angel  at 
one  time,  a  destroying  demon  at  another,  the  chief 

299 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

builder  and  sliaper  of  the  surface  of  the  globe,  and 
the  key  to  all  life  that  moves  upon  it.  It  has  been 
through  the  heavenly  circuit ;  it  has  been  a  breath, 
a  painted  cloud,  a  trembling  dewdrop;  it  has  been 
the  lair  of  the  lightning;  it  has  pulsed  in  the  heart 
of  the  storm;  it  has  fertilized  the  hills;  it  has  eroded 
the  rocks;  it  has  been  the  giver  of  life  and  the  giver 
of  death. 

With  the  sun  at  one  side  and  the  earth  at  the 
other,  what  a  tremendous  and,  on  the  whole,  bene- 
ficent elemental  machine  is  set  going!  Noiseless, 
exhaustless,  all-powerful,  wound  up  by  the  primal 
impulse  that  set  the  worlds  in  motion,  it  will  not  run 
down  till  the  worlds  become  sterile  with  the  lapse  of 
geologic  and  astronomic  time. 

§ 

Who  or  what  taught  the  birds,  both  parents  and 
nestlings,  to  practice  sanitary  measures  about  their 
nests?  The  young  of  all  kinds  that  I  know  of  never 
defile  the  nest  till  they  leave  it,  and  the  parents 
are  diligent  in  waiting  upon  them  before  that  time. 
No  more  regular  is  the  opening  of  the  mouth  of  the 
young  for  food  than  is  the  movement  which  indi- 
cates to  the  parent  that  the  refuse  of  the  food  is  to 
be  disposed  of.  These  sanitary  precautions  are  a 
part  of  the  primal,  fundamental  paternal  and  ma- 
ternal solicitude  over  the  well-being  of  living  things 
that  pervades  all  nature.  This  solicitude  keeps  the 
balance  of  the  account  on  the  side  of  life. 

300 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 


When  we  are  hard-pressed  for  an  explanation  of 
natural  phenomena  we  fall  back  upon  the  nature  of 
things.  That  is  the  final  court  of  appeal.  We  can 
take  no  step  beyond  that.  It  is  a  generalization  so 
vast  that  all  the  mysteries  of  creation  may  be  hid- 
den in  it.  The  question  of  the  nature  of  things  is  in- 
volved in  the  question  of  the  nature  of  the  human 
mind  that  speculates  about  the  nature  of  things. 
There  is  the  nature  of  things,  and  there  is  the  na- 
ture of  man.  How  are  the  two  related?  How  do  they 
interact?  Is  not  man  a  part  of  nature?  What  is  com- 
mon between  a  man  and  a  rock,  or  a  man  and  a 
river,  or  a  man  and  a  tree,  or  a  man  and  his  horse, 
or  his  dog? 

The  same  primary  elements  and  forces  are  in  all, 
the  same  chemistry,  the  same  physics.  In  all  ver- 
tebrate animals  the  metabolism  is  about  the  same, 
and  the  ontogeny  and  philogeny.  Protoplasm  is 
the  physical  basis  of  life  in  both  the  animal  and  the 
vegetable;  the  cell  is  the  unit  of  structure,  the  tree 
breathes  or  takes  in  oxygen  through  its  leaves,  as 
man  through  his  lungs.  The  sunlight  does  for  the 
tree  what  it  does  not  do  for  the  animal;  it  enables 
it  to  appropriate  the  carbon  dioxide  from  the  air. 
This  poisons  the  animal,  but  nourishes  the  plant. 
Man  must  get  his  carbon  through  his  food.  The 
vegetable  world  stands  between  him  and  the  min- 
eral. His  only  direct  hold  upon  the  world  of  non- 
301 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

living  matter  is  upon  the  air  through  his  lungs,  and 
upon  the  water  through  his  digestive  tract.  Of  all 
the  elements,  he  gets  air  alone  at  first  hand;  he 
gets  water  at  first  and  also  at  second  hand,  through 
the  tissues  of  animals  and  vegetables.  He  lives  in 
a  sea  of  nitrogen  and  he  cannot  live  without  this 
element,  but  he  is  powerless  to  appropriate  it  from 
the  air,  as  he  is  to  appropriate  hydrogen  from  water, 
or  iron  from  the  ore. 

It  is  the  nature  of  the  oak  to  produce  acorns,  of 
the  apple-tree  to  produce  apples.  Each  after  its 
kind.  But  what  makes  the  kind  —  that  is  the  mys- 
tery. The  same  chemical  elements,  more  or  less,  the 
same  physical  processes  in  an  oak  and  in  a  maple, 
the  same  water,  the  same  soil,  the  same  air  nourish 
both;  osmosis,  endosmosis,  oxidation,  hydration, 
and  so  on,  the  same  in  each;  and  yet  one  is  an  oak, 
and  the  other  a  maple. 

You  may  bring  up  a  dog  on  the  food  of  a  man,  and 
yet  you  cannot  make  a  man  of  him.  The  putrid 
fungus  will  grow  under  the  same  conditions  that 
nourish  a  rose.  The  secret  of  life  with  all  its  myriad 
forms  is  hidden  in  the  nature  of  things,  and  there 
we  have  to  leave  it.  We  finally  run  nearly  every 
question  of  nature  to  hole  in  the  nature  of  things. 
How  our  mental  and  spiritual  life  share  in  the 
nature  of  things  is  a  hard  question. 

*'  Objects  gross  and  the  unseen  soul  are  one," 
says  Whitman.  Matter  and  mind  blend,  but  how? 

202 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

Nature  is  so  all-inclusive  that  we  cannot  say  of 
anything  that  it  is  not  natural.  It  may  be  out  of  the 
usual  course  of  things,  or  contrary  to  some  particu- 
lar phase  of  nature,  and  yet  it  must  be  natural.  We 
may  say  that  it  is  not  natural  for  a  butternut-tree  to 
produce  hickory-nuts,  or  a  peach-tree  to  yield  pears, 
yet  if  such  a  thing  ever  happened,  it  must  be  natu- 
ral, because  it  would  be  a  part  of  nature.  All  the  re- 
ported miracles  would  fall  into  the  same  category  of 
the  natural.  One  species  of  tree  grafted  upon  another 
is  still  a  bit  of  nature,  a  novelty  brought  about  by 
the  hand  of  man,  as  are  all  our  improved  fruits  and 
grains.  Nature  accepts  them,  but  does  not  guarantee 
that  the  seed  of  the  apple  will  produce  a  pippin  or  a 
Baldwin.  In  the  animal  world  inheritance  is  a  much 
more  certain  factor.  Rarely  is  there  a  reversion  to  a 
more  primitive  type.  Improved  grains  and  flowers 
breed  true,  but  improved  fruits  rarely  do.  Probably 
the  former,  if  left  without  man's  care,  would  in  time 
revert  to  the  wild  type;  all  would  drop  what  man 
has  given  them  and  degenerate.  Man  himself  degen- 
erates toward  the  savage  if  long  enough  removed 
from  home  and  civilization.  The  dog  goes  back 
toward  the  wolf,  and  the  horse  back  toward  its  wild 
ancestors.  What  we  add  to  Nature  is  easily  peeled 
off,  but  what  Nature  adds  to  herself  sticks. 


The  atmosphere  clothes  the  earth  miles  deep  with 
magic  —  an  invisible,  ungraspable  presence,  bearing 

303 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

upon  our  bodies  with  a  weight  of  many  tons  and 
running  by  its  weight  our  machinery  of  life,  yet  as 
unfelt  as  any  feather.  Our  relation  to  it  is  so  deli- 
cate, so  constant,  so  harmonious,  so  all-embracing, 
that  we  are  unconscious  of  it  till  we  turn  about  and 
cross-question  it.  All  our  major  relations  to  nature 
are  of  a  similar  kind.  We  do  have  to  take  thought 
about  our  food  and  shelter  and  clothing,  but  not 
about  breathing  or  gravity,  or  the  rain,  or  the  sun- 
Hght.  Through  the  air,  through  gravity,  through 
light,  through  climate,  through  geology,  through 
astronomy,  nature  constantly  acts  upon  us.  A  child 
in  its  mother's  womb  is  no  closer  linked  to  its 
mother  than  we  are  all  our  hves  to  what  we  call  na- 
ture. The  source  of  all  our  strength,  namely,  gravity, 
we  are  all  unconscious  of,  unless  we  cross  it  or 
defy  it.  Mother  Nature  carries  us  in  her  womb  and 
we  know  it  not  till  we  meet  with  the  new  birth  of 
reason.  Then  we  know  our  mother  and  see  and  feel 
our  kinship  and  sonship  towards  her.  Science  opens 
our  eyes  to  the  truth  of  the  facts  that  the  poets  and 
prophets  have  sung  in  all  ages.  We  see  with  our 
reason  what  men  in  all  ages  have  felt  in  their  hearts. 


How  contrary  to  Nature  man  seems!  How  he 
crosses  her  and  forces  her  and  masters  her,  and  im- 
proves upon  her,  and  makes  her  his  slave,  and  yet  he 
is  also  a  part  of  Nature.  She  is  his  banker;  from  her 
vaults  come  al^  his  funds.  Whence  this  apparent 

304 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

contradiction?  Because  in  man  appears  something 
that  appears  nowhere  else  in  Nature  —  the  gift  of 
reason,  or  the  soul.  This  turns  upon  Nature  and 
judges  her,  and  does  with  her  forces  what  they  can- 
not do  with  one  another. 

Man  makes  new  combinations,  he  links  together 
that  which  Nature  has  sundered,  and  he  sunders 
what  Nature  has  linked  together,  and  gets  power 
through  each  process.  He  adds  nothing;  he  has 
nothing  to  add;  his  wit  is  the  new  factor.  It  brings 
about  new  situations,  it  redistributes  the  natural 
forces  and  elements.  It  uses  Nature's  mechanics  to 
new  ends,  it  uses  Nature's  chemistry  to  make  new 
compounds,  it  ties  them  together  so  delicately  that 
a  spark  or  a  blow  releases  tremendous  energy.  If 
Nature  did  this  herself  as  man  does,  the  sphere 
would  have  been  blown  to  atoms  long  ago.  Man 
controls.  He  gives  the  upper  hand  to  one  force  over 
another.  Nature  lets  her  dogs  fight  it  out,  lets  the 
fire  rage,  lets  the  floods  roar,  lets  the  winds  destroy. 
She  has  no  special  end  as  man  has.  In  the  inorganic 
world  her  forces  seek  a  deadlock,  or  a  stalemate,  but 
her  complex  of  forces  is  so  vast  that  an  equilibrium 
is  never  reached,  or  is  constantly  broken  up.  The 
waters  seek  the  sea,  but  cannot  stay  there.  The  laws 
of  heat  tend  to  reduce  all  to  a  uniform  temperature 
with  the  death  of  all  life,  but  this  never  really  comes 
about. 


305 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

§ 
One  thing  is  very  certain,  a  certainty  that  we  are 

constajitly  forgetting  or  overlooking,  namely,  that 

man  is  a  part  of  nature,  of  the  sum  total  of  things, 

and  that  whatever  we  afl&rm  or  deny  of  the  imiverse, 

we  affirm  or  deny  of  him. 

Only  this  morning  I  was  saying  to  myself,  "There 

is  nothing  human  in  the  universe,  all  is  unhuman,*' 

when  I  was  brought  up  by  the  thought  that  the 

whole  of  humanity  is  a  part  of  the  universe;  that 

man  is  as  much  a  product  of  the  earth  as  are  the 

trees  and  the  grass,  and  his  genesis  must  involve, 

more  or  less,  all  the  material  forces,  geologic  and 

astronomic. 


In  nature  the  good  and  the  bad,  the  beautiful  and 
the  ugly  are  not  separated.  They  are  such  only  to 
man;  all  is  in  keeping  with  the  impersonal  laws 
and  forces.  We  call  that  evil  which  thwarts  or  in- 
jures us,  but  nature  is  like  a  cloud  that  goes  through 
the  cycle  of  change  and  remains  the  same.  Good  and 
bad  are  irrelevant  questions,  just  as  upper  and  un- 
der do  not  apply  to  the  orbs  in  space.  To  our  senses 
it  is  all  upper,  but  in  reality  the  terms  are  meaning- 
less away  from  the  earth. 

In  nature  all  is  good,  but,  again,  the  terms  "good" 
and  "bad"  are  meaningless  with  the  "all."  The 
Cosmos  is  self-repaired,  self-balanced,  self-sup- 
ported, and  is  all  good  or  all  bad,  just  as  you  elect. 

306 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

We  divide  and  subdivide,  and  sort,  and  sift,  because 
we  can  use  only  parts  and  fragments  of  nature. 

§ 

One  May  day  on  my  return  from  a  walk  I  asked  a 
friend  —  quoting  a  line  of  Emerson's,  about  "the 
untaught  spring  being  wise  in  cowslips  and  anem- 
ones "  —  which  one  of  our  wild  flowers  showed  the 
most  wisdom,  at  least  something  most  akin  to  hu- 
man taste,  in  showing  off  its  own  beauty.  After  a 
moment's  reflection  she  said,  "The  columbine." 
"Yes,  that  is  it  —  'rock-loving  columbine,'  as  Em- 
erson says."  It  is  really  the  child  of  the  rocks;  it 
must  have  its  rocky  throne  and  background,  the 
delicate,  sculptured,  flame-colored  flower  hanging 
its  brilliant  tremulous  bells  above  the  gray,  immo- 
bile rocks.  In  my  walk  through  a  field  I  came  upon 
an  inclined  rock-stratum  cutting  up  through  the 
turf,  and  at  the  foot  of  it  stood  groups  of  columbine 
set  off  against  the  gray  background.  Along  the  road 
in  the  woods  the  rocky  wall  and  precipice  were  fairly 
aflame  with  columbine.  It  came  out  of  narrow  seams 
like  jets  of  flame.  Apparently  the  less  soil,  the  more 
columbine.  It  seemed  as  if  the  old  Silurian  rock 
after  millions  of  years  of  gestation  had  hatched  out 
a  soul,  and  this  was  the  expression  of  it. 

**Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance." 

Wordsworth's  daffodils  are  coarse  and  common  be- 
side our  flower,  with  its  throb  of  color,  its  five  gold- 

307 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

rimmed  honey-wells,  its  five-pointed  collar,  its  clus- 
ter of  golden  anthers,  and  its  delicate  foliage  and 
purple  stems.  It  bejewels  the  rocks;  it  loves  the 
rocl^  as  the  jewel- weed  loves  water.  Our  rock  coryd- 
aJis  also  loves  the  rocks,  but  it  is  a  far  less  highly 
developed  flower  and  has  none  of  the  columbine's 
art;  and  the  same  is  true  of  saxifrage  and  rock  cress 

—  all  children  of  the  rocks,  but  not  "wildly  wise  " 
and  wildly  beautiful  like  the  columbine.  Aquilegiay 

—  eaglelike,  —  but  its  talons  are  tipped  with  honey, 
and  its  crimson  is  the  glow  of  the  cheek  of  May.  It 
holds  aloft  its  nectarines  like  tiny  bottles  open  at 
the  bottom  into  which  the  rains  cannot  enter.  Re- 
verse its  pendulous  character  and  its  grace  is  gone. 

Ah !  the  world-old  rocks  with  these  living  jewels  in 
their  ears  —  how  young  they  look! 

§ 

Emerson  in  his  "Journals  '*  has  a  phrase  about  the 
"shortcomings  of  the  universe."  The  excesses  of  the 
universe  are  much  more  obvious:  Nature's  over- 
flowing measures,  her  unloosened  forces  —  the  tor- 
nado, the  avalanche,  the  earthquake  —  destroying 
with  one  hand  what  she  builded  with  the  other,  the 
devastation  of  flood  and  fire;  in  human  history, 
wars,  pestilence,  and  famine;  and,  in  the  history  of 
the  lower  forms  of  life,  the  failure  of  natural  checks 
and  balances  —  locusts,  tent-caterpillars,  gypsy- 
moths,  lemmings,  and  the  like.  But  the  shortcomings 
of  Nature  are  not  so  easily  pointed  out.  Of  course, 

308 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

both  her  excesses  and  her  shortcomings  are  only 
such  from  our  point  of  view  —  the  point  of  view  of 
the  petty  economies  with  which  om*  Hves  are  bomid 
up.  We  measure  Nature's  excesses  and  failures  by 
standards  of  our  own.  "Who  heaps  his  measure 
spills  his  wine,"  says  one  of  our  minor  poets,  but 
Nature's  wine,  though  spilled,  is  not  lost.  Another 
cup  is  ready  to  catch  it.  "If  my  bark  sinks  't  is  to 
another  sea,"  sings  a  Concord  poet,  but  only  Nature 
can  say  this.  Her  loss  in  one  sphere  is  a  gain  in  an- 
other. A  few  years  ago  the  measure  of  insect-life  was 
overfull;  the  tent-caterpillars  were  fast  becoming  a 
plague,  and  the  larvse  of  other  insects  were  devas- 
tating the  woods  and  gardens  and  fruit-lands.  Then 
came  a  wet,  cold  May  and  the  germs  of  these  pests 
were  nipped  in  the  egg;  they  did  not  hatch,  or,  if 
hatched,  they  failed  to  mature;  and  thus  our  or- 
chards and  forests  are  greatly  the  gainers.  The  in- 
sect-eating birds  have  suffered,  but  vegetation  has 
profited. 

§ 

The  events  and  characters  of  history  do  not  ap- 
pear in  ordered  sequence  any  more  than  they  do  in 
nature,  or  in  the  physical  history  of  the  globe.  There 
are  slumps,  lapses,  delays,  waste.  The  seasons,  as  we 
name  them,  follow  one  after  another,  but  there  are 
set-backs,  cruel  frosts,  or  unseasonable  heats,  or 
droughts.  Yet  the  tide  of  the  year  sweeps  on.  The 
race  of  man  has  progressed  through  blood  and  crime 

309 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

and  wars  and  pestilence  and  superstition,  but  it  has 
been  an  ordered  sequence  only  as  we  make  it  so. 
The  creative,  ameliorating  power  is  blind,  but  it  is 
ceaselessly  active,  and  it  finds  its  goal  sooner  or 
later.  Endless  variation,  with  natural  selection 
working  sleeplessly,  bring  about  the  new  and  higher 
types  in  animal  life.  In  human  progress  there  is  a 
new  element  not  in  nature,  namely,  human  reason, 
which  works  in  and  under  the  fatality  of  nature, 
which  has  been  a  great  element  in  human  progress, 
but  the  tendency  to  progress  is  older  than  human 
reason. 

We  might  say  the  steam  engine,  the  cotton-gin, 
the  telegraph,  the  phonograph,  came  when  they 
were  most  needed.  We  do  not  see  that  these  things 
create  their  own  need,  that  they  are  a  slow  evolu- 
tion, that  they  came  when  the  general  progress 
of  the  race  was  ripe  for  them.  They  are  a  part  of 
our  mastery  over  nature,  which  is  the  growth  of 
ages. 

The  progress  of  nature  and  of  the  race  of  man  is 
well  typified  by  these  cat-tail  flags  growing  here  in 
the  ditch  in  front  of  my  window.  The  seeds  of  the 
plant  grow  only  in  marshes,  and  they  always  find 
the  marshes.  How.^  They  look  in  all  directions  — 
north,  south,  east,  west  —  and  hence  are  sure, 
sooner  or  later,  to  blunder  on  the  spot  which  they 
seek.  Ten  thousand  miss  the  mark  to  one  that  hits, 
but  the  one  does  hit  it. 

310 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 


The  great  movements  of  the  Cosmos  are  on  such 
a  scale  that  we  note  them  not.  The  sidereal  universe 
is  as  fluid  and  mobile  as  a  meadow  brook,  but  to 
human  experience  it  is  as  fixed  as  the  everlasting 
hills.  The  enormous  speed  of  the  revolving  earth 
registers  itseK  to  the  eye  very  slowly  in  the  rising 
sun  or  moon,  while  the  incredible  speed  of  the  stars 
in  their  diverse  orbits  does  not  register  itself  to  the 
human  eye  at  all;  to  our  eyes  they  are  fixed  forever 
in  their  places  in  the  sky;  as  the  earliest  observers 
beheld  the  constellations,  so  we  behold  them,  and 
so  untold  future  generations  will  behold  them, 
though  the  separate  bodies  that  are  thus  grouped 
are  rusTiing  their  several  ways  through  space  with 
a  velocity  that  nothing  but  light  rivals. 


Think  of  this  huge  globe  as  a  living  corpuscle  in 
the  veins  of  the  Infinite,  gross  and  inert  to  our  dull 
senses,  but  vibrating  and  responding  to  influences 
and  forces  that  are  too  vast  for  us  to  take  in.  Behold 
it  floating  through  a  sea  of  energy  like  a  mote  in  the 
air,  or  a  corpuscle  in  the  veins,  as  insignificant  a  part 
of  the  Whole  as  the  latter  is  of  the  human  body,  but 
under  the  spell  of  the  Whole,  and  a  vital  part  of  the 
Whole.  If  we  could  draw  far  enough  away  from  our 
system  we  should  see  the  sun  surrounded  by  his 
little  family,  filling  a  space  in  the  heavens  the  size 
of  one's  hatbrim,  and  other  suns  filling  other  little 

311 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

spaces,  and  still  others  without  end,  like  daisies 
here  and  there  in  the  broad  meadows  —  the  vacant 
spaces  are  so  immense.  Or,  they  are  like  vessels  upon 
the  sea,  with  a  vast  waste  of  waters  between.  But 
for  all  the  room,  collisions  do  happen  at  sea,  and  col- 
lisions, no  doubt,  do  happen  in  the  abysses  of  side- 
real space.  Astronomers  see  evidences  of  them  at 
times.  The  meteors  that  cut  through  our  atmos- 
phere, and  the  meteoric  dust,  doubtless  have  their 
origin  in  these  collisions;  the  blazing  stars,  and  the 
paling  stars,  the  same.  The  relative  space  occupied 
by  one  system  is  like  the  palm  of  one's  hand  in  one's 
lap  compared  with  the  spread  of  the  Western  prairie 
thousands  of  miles  away.  The  spaces  between  the 
stars  in  Orion's  belt,  or  in  the  Pleiades,  would  open 
to  hundreds  of  millions  of  miles,  if  we  could  ap- 
proach them.  Like  fruit  on  the  same  vine  seem  many 
groups  of  stars,  but  the  spaces  that  really  separate 
them  overwhelm  the  mind  that  tries  to  grasp  their 
magnitude. 

Ground-room  is  cheap  in  heaven;  there  are  oceans 
of  it  to  spare.  The  grouping  of  celestial  bodies  which 
we  see  are  as  of  a  flock  of  birds  upon  the  same 
branch. 


I  never  tire  of  contemplating  the  earth  as  it  swims 
through  space.  As  I  near  the  time  when  I  know 
these  contemplations  must  cease,  it  is  more  and 
more  in  my  thoughts  —  its  beauty,  its  wonder,  its 

312 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

meaning,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  voyage  we  are 
making  on  its  sm'face.  The  imaginary  and  hoped- 
for  other  world  occupies  my  thoughts  very  httle. 
There  is  so  much  to  know  here,  so  much  to  enjoy, 
so  much  to  engage  every  faculty  of  the  mind  and 
develop  every  power  of  the  body,  such  beauty,  such 
sublimity,  and  such  a  veil  of  enchantment  and 
mystery  over  all  —  how  can  one  ever  tire  of  it,  or 
wish  for  a  better?  I  am  in  love  with  the  earth.  With 
all  its  hostile  forces  and  forbidding  features,  —  its 
deserts,  its  jimgles,  its  killing  heats  and  frigid  zones, 
its  storms  and  earthquakes,  its  wars,  and  famines, 
and  contagious  diseases,  —  I  am  thankful  that  my 
lot  was  not  cast  on  any  other  planet.  It  is  the  best 
possible  world,  undoubtedly,  for  such  beings  as  we 
are,  and  is  slowly  becoming  better  adapted  to  human 
life  —  ripening  on  the  vast  sidereal  tree  whose  fruit 
is  worlds  and  systems.  How  much  it  has  ripened  in 
the  historic  period  who  can  telLf^  No  doubt  it  has 
rij>ened  somewhat  in  ten  thousand  years.  But  every 
geologic  period  has  undoubtedly  seen  some  im- 
provement, with  temporary  set-backs  during  the 
ice  age,  or  ice  ages.  But  these  ages  sculpturing 
the  surface,  pulverizing  the  rocks,  and  changing 
the  rivers  —  filling  up  and  wearing  down  —  seem 
like  workmen  preparing  the  landscape  for  a  more 
abundant  harvest. 


313 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 


When,  during  a  recent  cold,  wet  May,  I  saw  the 
delicate  wood  warblers  perishing  for  want  of  food, 
and,  during  the  dry,  hot  August  that  followed,  saw 
the  robins  dying  for  the  same  reason,  I  said,  "Dame 
Nature  takes  no  thought  of  her  children."  It  has 
taken  her  long  geologic  ages  to  develop  and  perfect 
them,  and  then  she  weans  them  as  a  hen  weans  her 
chickens,  and  leaves  them  to  take  their  chances  in 
the  great  complex  or  maelstrom  of  physical  forces 
that  surrounds  them.  Many  are  cut  off,  but  enough 
survive  to  serve  her  purpose  —  the  continuance  of 
the  race.  For  the  individual,  we  are  in  t^e  habit  of 
saying,  she  cares  nothing,  her  solicitude  is  only  for 
the  race.  Tennyson  sings  this  in  a  striking  manner 
in  his  "In  Memoriam." 

"So  careful  of  the  type,  she  seems. 
So  careless  of  the  single  life." 

Is  it  true.''  Do  not  the  biological  laws  favor  the 
individual  as  well  as  the  mass  of  which  he  is  the  unit? 
In  other  words,  can  the  race  be  favored  except 
through  its  units?  Are  there  any  biological  laws  that 
apply  to  the  many  and  not  to  the  one?  If  it  were  the 
mass  against  the  one,  the  race  against  the  individ- 
ual, then  one  might  say  yes.  The  multitude  has 
advantages  that  the  one  does  not  possess,  but  in  this 
case  the  one  is  a  part  of  the  multitude,  as  the  single 
soldier  is  a  part  of  the  army.  The  wise  general,  of 

314 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

course,  cares  more  for  his  army  as  a  unit  than  for 
the  individual  privates  that  compose  it;  he  is  often 
obliged  to  sacrifice  many  of  the  soldiers  for  the 
safety  and  well-being  of  the  army;  but  the  care  he 
takes  to  safeguard  the  whole  applies  to  every  sepa- 
rate unit.  In  like  manner  Nature  is  as  solicitous  for 
the  individual  as  she  is  for  the  race,  but,  on  the  whole, 
in  the  battle  of  life  the  chances  are  that  the  few  will 
fall  while  the  many  escape. 

True  it  is  Nature  does  not  make  a  man  or  a  bird, 
and  say,  "Now  I  will  look  after  him,  or  it;  I  will 
temper  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb;  my  special 
providences  will  see  that  no  harm  befalls  this  one, 
or  that  one."  Nothing  of  the  kind.  The  forethought 
of  what  we  call  God  is  only  the  sequence  of  biolog- 
ical laws  which  brings  about  the  development  of 
species  and  leaves  them  to  the  fate  of  the  blind 
but,  on  the  whole,  beneficent  forces.  We  have  to 
say  that  there  is  an  intelligence  in  nature  —  an  all- 
pervasive  mind  that  gives  rise  to  the  vital  order 
which  we  see,  and  of  which  we  are  a  part,  and  that 
through  the  nature  of  things  makes  our  continuance 
possible,  but  it  is  in  no  other  sense  paternal  or 
human.  But  here  is  the  queer  thing:  it  has  made 
it  possible  for  us  to  pass  this  judgment  upon  it,  to 
be  thus  critical  toward  it,  to  utter  the  verdict  I  have 
been  uttering.  It  is  no  invention  or  selection  of  our 
own  that  we  are  men  and  have  these  wonderful 
bodies  and  these  capacities. 

315 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

§ 
When  one  sees  the  great  cosmic  processes  and  the 

terrestrial  forces  going  on  so  irrespective  of  man, 
so  indifferent  to  him,  so  hostile  to  him  if  for  a  mo- 
ment he  places  himself  in  wrong  relations  to  them,  — 
ready  to  grind  him  to  powder  or  engulf  him  in 
the  deep,  —  so  infinitely  slow  in  providing  a  place 
for  him,  and  so  indifferent  to  him  when  all  is 
done,  careering  on  through  countless  ages  before  he 
comes,  and,  we  may  safely  say,  careering  on  through 
countless  ages  after  he  has  gone,  the  earth  given  up 
to  low  bestial  life  for  untold  seons  before  man  ap- 
peared, —  when  one  considers  all  this,  one  marvels 
why  he  is  here  at  all.  Was  his  advent  a  mere  acci- 
dent, or  is  it  all  for  him?  In  our  pride  we  say  it  is  all 
for  him,  and  all  our  theology  has  been  for  centuries 
trying  to  explain  away  this  apparent  hostility  or 
indifference  of  the  natural  forces,  and  to  reconcile 
man's  career  of  pain  and  suffering  with  the  idea  of 
a  benevolent  God. 

When  we  consider  what  infinite  pains  and  time 
Nature  seems  to  have  taken  to  crown  her  work  with 
man,  it  is  staggering  to  see  her  apparent  indifference 
to  each  individual  of  us.  Not  one  smallest  force  in 
the  universe  will  make  one  exception  for  any  of  us. 
We  are  borne  along  by  this  stream  of  tendency,  or 
creative  power,  and  the  stream  cannot  turn  back 
or  be  interrupted.  Every  effect  must  have  its  cause, 
which  refers  to  another  cause,  and  so  on.  Men  are 

316 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

nothing  with  Nature;  man  is  everything.  At  least, 
so  we  flatter  ourselves. 

Unless  we  think  twice  and  thrice  about  this  mat- 
ter, we  are  likely  to  exaggerate  this  apparent  in- 
difference toward  man  on  the  part  of  Nature.  The 
inorganic  world  is  certainly  indifferent  to  him  and 
to  all  other  forms  of  life.  The  laws  of  force  and  mat- 
ter know  him  not.  But  the  organic  world  as  cer- 
tainly favors  him;  the  biologic  laws  are  on  his  side; 
else  how  would  he  ever  have  got  here,  or  remained 
here?  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  they  make  excep- 
tions for  him,  any  more  than  fire  and  flood  do, 
but  I  mean  that  in  their  inevitable  workings  they 
promote  his  general  welfare.  They  adapt  him  to  the 
universe  in  which  he  is  placed,  they  have  endowed 
him  with  a  brain  which  gives  him  dominion  over  all 
animal  life  and  enables  him  to  subdue  and  use  the 
inorganic  forces.  The  biological  forces  favored  man 
long  before  he  was  man.  In  what  large  and  bold  and 
striking  lines  Whitman  put  this  idea  in  his  '*  Leaves 
of  Grass":  — 

*'  Immense  have  been  the  preparations  for  me. 
Faithful,  and  friendly  the  arms  that  have  help'd  me. 

"  Cycles  ferried  my  cradle,  rowing  and  rowing,  like  cheerful  boat- 
men. 
For  room  to  me  stars  kept  aside  in  their  own  rings. 
They  sent  influences  to  look  after  what  was  to  hold  me. 

Before  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother  generations  guided  me. 
My  embryo  has  never  been  torpid,  nothing  could  overlay  it. 

317 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

"  For  it  the  nebula  cohered  to  an  orb, 
The  long  slow  strata  piled  to  rest  it  on. 
Vast  vegetables  gave  it  sustenance. 

Monstrous  saiu-oids  transported  it  in  their  mouths  and  depos- 
ited it  with  care. 

"  All  forces  have  been  steadily  employ'd  to  complete  and  delight 
me. 
Now  on  this  spot  I  stand  with  my  robust  soul." 

But  we  must  beware  about  being  too  sure  about 
the  friendliness  of  the  biological  laws.  They  fail 
to  favor  us  at  least  in  this  respect:  the  micro- 
scopical germs  that  destroy  us  are  as  strictly  the 
work  of  these  laws  as  we  ourselves  are.  They  are 
real  beings  lying  in  wait  upon  all  sides  ready  to 
pounce  upon  us  and  undo  the  work  of  the  beneficent 
germs  whenever  our  guard  is  down.  I  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  there  is  any  malevolent  intention  in  Na- 
ture toward  us,  but  that  we  are  now  and  then  the 
victims  of  the  indiscriminating  operation  of  her 
laws,  in  the  organic  as  well  as  in  the  inorganic  world. 


The  caterpillar  hurriedly  crawling  about  my 
porch,  going  this  way  and  that  way,  changing  its 
course  every  second  or  two,  lifting  up  it^  head  and 
feeling  right  and  left  as  if  searching  for  some  par- 
ticular object,  crossing  and  recrossing  the  porch 
floor,  feeling  into  the  cracks,  climbing  up  the  vines 
and  creeping  to  the  pendent  end  of  one  of  the  shoots, 
and  then  hanging  by  the  tip  of  its  body,  then  feeling 

318 


NATURE  AND  NATURAL  HISTORY 

out  in  all  directions,  and  finally  letting  go  its  hold 
and  falling  to  the  floor,  where  it  again  begins  to 
search  till  it  at  last  mounts  my  leg  as  I  sit  writing, 
and  appears  upon  my  knee,  furnishes  a  good  sample 
of  blind,  pushing  Nature,  radiating  in  all  directions 
in  order  to  be  sure  to  hit  a  mark  that  lies  only  in  one 
particular  direction  —  in  this  case,  a  suitable  place 
or  corner  in  which  the  insect  may  weave  the  shroud 
in  which  it  is  to  undergo  its  metamorphosis,  and 
emerge  a  winged  creature. 


D 


VI 

MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES 

OES  your  new  religion  help  toward  a  larger 
and  freer  life,  toward  more  good-will  and 
tolerance,  toward  a  keener  appreciation  of  the 
world  in  which  we  are  placed,  toward  a  wider  out- 
look and  deeper  and  saner  human  relations?  It  will 
help  toward  these  things  just  in  the  degree  in  which 
it  springs  from  these  things. 


The  lower  orders  of  animals  act  from  impulse, 
not  from  thought.  The  bird  builds  its  nest  from  im- 
pulse, incubates  from  impulse  or  inherited  disposi- 
tion, migrates  from  impulse,  and  weans  its  young 
from  impulse.  Man  acts  from  both  impulse  and 
thought.  He  thinks  about  his  acts.  Thought  in  him 
governs  or  controls  impulse.  He  has  an  impulse  to 
wed  and  breed,  but  he  stops  to  think  about  it,  and 
to  plan  for  it.  The  sexual  instinct  sometimes  masters 
him  and  he  assaults  the  female  like  a  brute  animal, 
but  on  the  whole  he  keeps  it  under  control.  The 
migrating  impulse  is  strong  in  man  as  in  other  ani- 
mals, but  is  more  or  less  controlled.  It  is  strong  in 
the  spring,  but  judgment  often  makes  him  wait 
till  summer  or  fall  to  satisfy  it. 

The   impulse   of   fear   often   masters   the  lower 

320 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES 

animal  and  he  runs  away.  The  impulse  of  anger  and 
revenge  often  masters  him.  In  all  these  things  the 
animal  lets  himself  go;  there  is  no  restraining  influ- 
ence of  mind  or  judgment. 


Was  Epictetus  logical  when  he  compared  logic 
to  a  measure  in  which  we  measure  corn  or  other 
grain  .^  A  bushel  measure  is  an  arbitrary  standard 
agreed  upon  by  the  community  using  it;  any  other 
standard  agreed  upon  would  be  as  fair  and  just. 
But  logic  is  not  an  arbitrary  standard,  that  we 
could  change  at  will;  it  is  based  upon  the  laws  of 
the  human  mind.  You  cannot  standardize  vital 
things,  only  mechanical  things.  He  is  more  logical 
when  he  says  that  to  be  blind  in  the  reason,  which 
distinguishes  good  from  evil,  is  like  being  blind  in 
the  vision,  that  distinguishes  white  from  black. 


What  a  sneaking  admiration  many  Americans 
have  for  a  monarchical  form  of  government !  It  is  a 
nice  thing  to  look  at;  it  is  picturesque,  —  a  perma- 
nent head  to  the  State,  grading  down  through  vari- 
ous ranks  to  the  masses.  It  appeals  to  a  feeling  we  all 
have.  Royalty!  What  a  magic  word!  Magic  because 
the  race  has  been  so  long  under  its  sway.  I  love  to  see 
the  bees  in  the  hive  surround  the  queen  and  make 
obeisance  to  her.  They  never  turn  their  backs  to  her, 
they  seem  loath  to  touch  her  except  to  feed  her. 
She  will  not  feed  herself;  and  she  will  fight  only 

321 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

wath  royalty.  Yet  she  is  in  no  strict  sense  a  queen. 
She  is  the  mother  of  the  hive,  and  the  reverence  of 
the  bees  is  to  motherhood. 

A  democracy  is  far  less  pleasing  to  look  upon 
than  an  autocracy,  less  artistic,  less  architectural. 
A  monarchy  is  like  a  cathedral,  a  democracy  like 
a  country  church.  Democracy  is  science;  many 
illusions  are  gone.  Monarchy  is  literature;  and  art, 
illusions,  and  superstitions  remain.  Science  and 
Democracy  are  now  in  the  ascendant.  Will  they 
always  remain  so?  Undoubtedly  human  life  will 
adjust  itself  to  them. 


We  know  the  sparks  in  the  fire  are  minute  parti- 
cles of  combustible  matter,  and  that  this  matter  is 
quickly  consumed  or  transformed  into  other  forms 
of  energy.  The  sparks  from  an  electric  battery  are  of 
another  kind,  they  are  not  matter,  there  is  no  com- 
bustion there.  So  far  as  we  know  they  are  pure  dis- 
earnate  energy.  The  whole  material  world,  visible 
and  invisible,  appears  to  be  charged  with  this  en- 
ergy which  man  can  summon  forth  at  will.  Is  it 
transcendental  matter? 


At  times  I  have  very  serious  misgivings  about  the 
outcome  of  the  world  war.  I  fear  we  are  reaping 
what  we  have  sown,  and  that  w^e  have  sown  the 
wind  to  reap  the  whirlwind.  For  a  hundred  years  or 
more  all  civilized  peoples  have  been  striving  for 

322 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES 

material  efficiency,  for  power  to  rule  the  world  of 
material  forces.  We  have  cultivated  science  as  if  it 
were  our  salvation;  we  have  builded  upon  it  and 
followed  it  eagerly  wherever  it  has  led,  and  it  has 
led  us  to  new  conquests  on  all  sides.  We  have  all 
been  part  of  a  world  movement  for  world  power. 
The  gods  we  have  really  worshiped  have  been  and 
are  the  gods  of  material  things.  In  this  movement 
Germany  has  led  all  other  nations.  Its  fullest  flower- 
ing and  fruit  have  been  with  her.  She  has  gone  soul 
and  body  to  efficiency  on  this  low  plane.  She  is 
drunk  with  the  wine  of  her  own  material  prosperity. 
The  Darwinian  principle  of  the  struggle  and  the  sur- 
vival of  the  fittest  has  become  the  corner-stone  of 
Germany's  philosophy  of  national  life.  In  brute 
strength  and  the  will  to  conquer  she  leads.  And  it 
has  looked  at  times  as  if  she  might  dominate  the 
world  and  impose  her  Kultur  upon  us  all.  The  gods 
of  science  are  on  her  side,  but  the  gods  of  the  moral 
law  are  on  the  side  of  the  Allies  and  I  cannot  believe 
they  will  give  world  dominion  into  her  hands.  If  they 
should,  then  good-bye  to  that  spirit  that  has  made 
France  and  Italy  and  England  what  they  are,  and 
that  has  made  America  what  she  is,  the  spirit  of 
freedom,  of  justice,  of  ideal  values,  —  our  blended 
inheritance  from  Greece  and  Judea  and  the  medita- 
tive Orient,— the  spirit  that  begat  literature,  poesy, 
art,  music.  The  later  generations  of  Germans  have 
produced  nothing  better  or   higher  than  Krupp 

323 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

guns.  If  a  Germanized  world  should  come,  it  would 
be  the  result  of  a  movement  that  we  have  all  been 
partners  in. 


A  born  prophet  and  leader  of  men  always  makes 
or  finds  a  following  and  starts  a  new  era.  When  an 
age  is  ripe  for  a  change  a  leader  is  sure  to  appear. 
He  is  begotten  by  the  spirit  of  the  times.  Such  men 
as  Washington,  Lincoln,  Grant,  Roosevelt,  Wilson, 
were  evoked  by  the  spirit  of  the  times  in  which  they 
lived;  they  were  an  evolution. 

Human  affairs  differ  from  cosmic  affairs  or  the 
affairs  of  nature  in  this  respect:  in  human  affairs 
there  enters  a  new  element  not  operative  in  nature 
—  the  element  of  reason.  Reason  cuts  across  lots, 
saves  waste,  improves  the  means,  and  gets  there 
ahead  of  nature.  Man's  progress  has  gone  on  faster 
and  faster  as  his  reason  has  developed  more  and 
more.  No  doubt  every  age  has  men  that  could  lead 
it  to  victory  if  the  demand  arose.  But  the  age  is  not 
ripe  for  them.  There  is  more  or  less  latent  greatness 
in  every  age,  greatness  that  is  never  developed; 
just  as  there  is  a  vast  amount  of  latent  heroism  in 
the  people  about  us,  as  is  proved  when  circum- 
stances arise  to  call  it  out. 


Lover  as  I  am  of  the  warmth  and  the  light,  yet  at 
times  I  almost  rebel  at  the  glare  of  midday.  How 
prosy  life  seems  then  compared  with  the  feeling  of 

324 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES 

the  morning  and  the  evening!  The  vertical  flood  of 
light  is  merciless.  It  kills  all  illusion.  It  emphasizes 
the  hard  reality.  It  strips  the  landscape  of  its  glam- 
our. Romance  flees  away;  the  shy  spirits  seek  the 
shade;  the  songbirds  become  silent;  love-making  of 
both  man  and  beast  declines;  the  pitiless  glare  halts 
even  the  turtles  and  the  frogs.  Have  we  not  been  told 
of  certain  French  authors  who  turn  day  into  night 
because  their  imaginations  work  better  by  lamp- 
light than  by  sunlight.? 

Our  fears,  our  superstitions,  our  disquieting 
thoughts  are  more  active  by  night  than  by  day. 
Death  seems  nearer.  Your  own  illness,  or  that  of  one 
in  your  family,  seems  much  more  portentous  in  the 
darkness.  When  the  sun  comes  half  your  apprehen- 
sions flee  away.  The  terrors  of  a  storm  by  night  are 
augmented  fourfold.  Scenes  that  at  such  times  are 
strange  and  exciting  to  the  imagination  are  dull 
and  commonplace  enough  by  daylight.  Hobgoblins 
never  venture  abroad  except  at  night.  Night  is  the 
land  of  fable,  of  myth,  of  superstition,  of  evil 
thoughts  and  deeds,  of  plotting  and  conspiracies. 
If  the  night  were  cut  out,  how  would  crime  diminish ! 
How  much  less  startling  and  ominous  the  knocking 
at  the  gate  in  "Macbeth"  would  seem  at  noon  than 
at  midnight! 

The  noonday  glare  does  put  the  imagination  out 
of  countenance;  it  puts  all  the  evil  spirits  to  flight, 
and  our  direful  apprehensions  fade  away.   Romance 

325 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

is  shy  of  it,  and  many  other  things.  But  how  it  does 
ripen  the  fruit  and  the  grain !  How  it  brings  us  to 
ourselves  and  the  common-sense  view  of  things! 
how  it  favors  our  practical  lives !  how  it  grounds  us 
in  real  things! 

The  best  thing  about  the  night  is  that  it  gives  us 
the  stars;  the  best  thing  about  the  day  is  that  it 
gives  us  the  earth  and  the  sky  —  all  the  wealth  of 
color  and  all  the  beauty  of  form;  the  bow  in  the 
clouds,  the  clouds  themselves,  the  lakes,  the  rivers, 
the  green  earth,  the  lofty  peaks.  Night  gives  us  in- 
finity, it  gives  us  the  awful  grandeur  and  mystery  of 
the  heavens,  but  the  day  makes  us  at  home  in  the 
earth  and  fosters  the  understanding.  We  love  the 
sunlit  fields,  but  we  stand  in  awe  of  the  starlit 
heavens.  The  middle  ground,  the  twilight,  favors 
sentiment  and  memory  and  romance.  Why  is  the 
evening  twilight  more  enticing  than  the  morning 
twilight? 


How  much  more  valuable  is  an  instinct  for  the 
truth  than  any  one  special  gift  or  talent !  One  sees 
men  of  superior  mentail  equipment  who  are  yet 
lacking  in  this  instinct  for  the  truth:  that  is,  they 
do  not  gravitate  naturally,  spontaneously,  to  that 
which  is  true,  as  distinguished  from  that  which  is 
merely  plausible  or  specious  or  expedient.  I  was 
thinking  of  this  recently  while  reading  Darwin. 
How  single  his  mind  was!  In  debate  most  men  are 

326 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES 

more  intent  on  victory  than  upon  the  truth.  Hence 
it  is  that  the  truth  is  so  often  imperiled  by  con- 
troversy. 


"What  more  absurd  than  to  quarrel  with  a  man 
because  he  does  not  see  as  you  do ! "  I  often  hear  this 
remark  made  in  defense  or  excuse  of  the  nature- 
faker.  Now  the  whole  question  hinges  upon  what  is 
meant  by  the  word  "see."  If  you  mean  "think," 
then  I  quite  agree  with  you;  all  men  do  not  think 
alike;  they  differ  as  much  in  this  respect  as  they 
do  in  their  complexions,  or  stature,  or  dispositions. 
But  if  you  refer  to  the  use  of  the  corporeal  eye, 
actual  observation  of  external  objects,  then  I  say 
all  men  must  see  alike  if  they  are  to  see  accurately. 


St.  Augustine  says  we  cannot  see  darkness,  nor 
hear  silence,  but  is  it  not  our  eyes  and  ears  that 
make  us  aware  that  such  realities  exist?  There  are 
many  problems-  and  mysteries  which  our  reason 
cannot  solve,  but  is  it  not  the  reason  that  discloses 
such  questions  to  us.^^  Reason  has  its  limits,  and  it 
is  never  more  triumphant  than  when  it  recognizes 
these  limitations. 

§ 

"What  is  it  that  constitutes  and  makes  man  what 
he  is?"  asks  Huxley,  and  answers,  "What  is  it  but 
the  power  of  language?"  One  may  say  with  equal 
confidence  that  it  is  man  that  makes  the  language. 

327 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

Man  is  first  and  the  language  follows.  You  must 
have  man  before  you  can  have  his  language.  The 
lower  animals  have  a  rude  language,  but  it  does  not 
develop  them,  or  make  men  of  them. 


There  seems  to  be  the  same  excess  of  fear  in  the 
world  that  there  is  of  pain.  How  fearful  most  of  the 
wild  creatures  are!  and  for  reasons.  Fear  is  necessary 
to  their  self-preservation,  hence  Nature  heaps  the 
measure.  An  animal  is  as  afraid  of  a  harmless  thing 
as  of  a  dangerous.  A  horse  is  as  afraid  of  an  auto- 
mobile as  of  a  bear.  Nature  secures  her  end  when 
she  makes  the  animal  afraid  of  anything  and  every- 
thing strange  and  unusual.  She  wastes  no  time  in 
giving  the  animal  the  power  to  discriminate:  an  ex- 
cess of  fear  can  do  no  harm,  and  it  may  do  good.  To 
trim  and  curtail  and  economize  is  not  Nature's  way. 
She  sows  her  seed  broadcast,  sure  that  some  of 
them  will  take. 

Fear  in  the  child  is,  in  our  day,  for  the  most  part 
gratuitous.  It  is,  of  course,  a  survival  from  our  ani- 
mal or  savage  ancestors.  There  was  a  time  when  the 
dark  concealed  a  real  foe,  and  when  the  strange 
apparition  meant  harm  or  death.  The  warring  of  the 
male  animals  over  the  females  is  wise;  the  strongest 
propagates  the  species,  but  see  the  pain  and  suffer- 
ing that  attend  it,  often  death.  What  does  Nature 
care?  Her  ends  are  secured.  Natural  selection  is  a 
painful  and  expensive  process,  but  it  goes. 

328 


MISCELLANEOUS  NOTES 

§ 

We  think  of  this  mystery  we  call  life  under  the 
image  of  a  fluid;  it  may  take  any  or  all  forms;  it  is  a 
stream  which  is  ever  and  never  the  same;  it  begins 
and  ends  every  moment;  it  adapts  itself  to  all  con- 
ditions, in  the  air,  in  the  water,  in  the  soil,  on  the 
rocks,  in  the  surf,  in  the  marsh,  in  the  cold,  in  the 
heat  —  form  within  form,  form  nourishing  form  and 
destroying  form,  life  building  up,  life  pulling  down, 
life  changing  the  face  of  the  earth.  The  primal  laws 
of  hunger,  of  feeding  and  breeding,  shape  all  the 
rest.  To  get  food  and  a  place  to  increase  and  multi- 
ply is  the  source  of  all  the  "red  strife"  and  all  the 
"white  strife"  in  the  world.  These  are  the  main- 
springs of  development.  And  are  they  not  beneficent 
laws  or  instincts.'^  Do  not  pleasure  and  well-being 
jQow  from  them? 


To  know  one*s  own  mind  on  any  of  the  great 
questions  of  life,  to  know  one's  own  ignorance,  to 
understand  one's  want  of  understanding,  to  know 
the  part  played  in  one's  mental  life  by  race,  family, 
training,  by  "previous  condition  of  servitude"  to 
creeds  and  parties  and  half-views,  by  the  times  in 
which  one  lives,  by  ancestry,  by  temperament,  by 
schooling,  and  by  surroundings,  is  a  very  great  mat- 
ter. Each  of  us  is  a  composite  personality;  behind 
us  is  an  immensely  long  line  of  ancestors  of  all  types 
and  conditions,  each  of  whom  has  contributed  some 

329 


FIELD  AND  STUDY 

shred  of  character  to  our  make-up,  and  each  of 
whom  speaks  more  or  less  in  all  our  daily  thoughts 
and  acts.  No  wonder  we  are  contradictory  and  in- 
consistent. No  wonder  we  do  not  hold  steadily  to 
one  set  of  views  on  any  great  question.  Now  one 
of  our  ancestors  dominates  us,  now  anotjier.  Is  it 
at  all  likely  that  all  these  ancestors  held  the  same 
views  on  all  subjects.^  Did  they  not  burn  and  hang 
and  persecute  one  another  for  opinion's  sake.^^ 


THE  END 


DnDSX 


INDEX 


Air,  mineral  elements  in,  123,  124; 
our  relation  to  the,  303,  304. 

Air-plants,  123,  124. 

Animals,  ebb  and  flow  in  lives  of, 
152;  specialized  and  generalized 
forms,  162;  do  not  reflect,  293. 

Antennaria,  210-13. 

Apple-tree,  39,  40. 

Aristotle,  quoted,  112. 

Art,  and  reality,  236-40. 

Astronomy,  pleasures  of,  190,  191. 

Atmospheric  pressure,  271. 

Atoms,  263. 

Autumn  morning,  297. 

Barnacle,  273. 

Beard,  Dan,  his  Animal  Book,  292, 
293. 

Bee,  honey,  138. 

Bee,  mason,  137. 

Beebe,  C.  William,  quoted,  294. 

Bees,  mind  in,  137. 

Beginnings,  189,  190,  244. 

Birches,  growing  on  rocks,  36,  37. 

Birds,  migration,  3-22;  effects  nf  a 
late  spring  upon,  15-17;  our  in- 
terest in,  53,  54 ;  leaving  the  nest, 
61,  62,  72-76;  use  of  white  ma- 
terials in  nest,  71,  72;  songs,  89- 
101;  courtship,  89,  90;  opposite 
natures  of  the  sexes,  95;  affection 
for  young  and  mate,  98,  99;  eye- 
sight, 103,  104;  winter  waifs,  206- 
09,  214-17;  sanitation,  300. 

Bird's-nesting,  102-11. 

Bluebird,  99,  103;  a  quarrel  with 
robins,  66,  67;  young  leaving 
nest,  73,  74,  76;  and  wrens,  80- 
82;  notes  and  manners,  96;  vir- 
tues, 289,  290. 

Bobolink,  7;  decrease  and  increase, 
22;  song  and  the  female,  94;  nest- 
ing, 111;  two  males  and  one  fe- 
male, 111. 

Bob-white.  See  Quail. 

Boulders,  180. 

Brain,  the,  266-68. 


Bryant,  William  Cullen,  6,  222; 
quoted,  5,  6. 

Burdock,  33-36. 

Butterfly,  swallow-tailed,  transfor- 
mation, 44-48. 

Buzzard,  turkey,  91,  103,  104, 

Catalysis,  186. 

Catbird,  a  tame  pair,  8. 

Caterpillars,  transformation  and 
cocoon-weaving,  44-52,  318,  319. 

Cat-tail,  37. 

Cattle,  grazing  in  water,  274;  gor- 
ing rescuers,  295. 

Cedar-bird.   See  Waxwing,  cedar. 

Celestial  mechanics,  253-55. 

Chat,  yellow-breasted,  a  pair  with 
nest  and  eggs,  62-64;  shyness,  64; 
location  of  nest,  64. 

Chemical  affinity,  261,  262. 

Chemistry,  wonders  of,  1S4-88, 

Chickadee,  nesting,  110. 

Childs,  John  Lewis,  153. 

Chipmunk,  158;  washing  his  face, 
115;  attractiveness,  140;  boj'hood 
recollections,  140,  141;  tidiness, 
142;  friendly  ways,  142;  provident 
habits,  143,  144;  robbing  one  an- 
other, 144-50;  nest,  148;  tunnels, 
149;  disposal  of  earth,  150,  151, 
197;  var^-ing  abundance,  152,  153. 

Church,  the,  246. 

Clematis,  38,  39. 

Columbine,  307,  308. 

Consciousness,  268. 

Coon.  See  Raccoon. 

Cordaites  costatus,  181. 

Corydahs,  308. 

Cosmos,  the,  254,  255;  great  move- 
ment of,  311. 

Cowbird,  experiment  with  a  youn^ 
one,  59-61. 

Creative  energy,  259. 

Creeper,  brown,  216. 

Cretaceous  period,  260,  261. 

Crow,  character  and  manners,  118- 
21. 


333 


INDEX 


Cuckoo,  55. 

Cuckoo,  black-billed,  feediug  young, 
196;  nesting-habits,  197. 

Darwin,  Charles,  129,  277;  quoted, 

278. 
Day,  and  night,  324-26. 
Democracy,  322. 
Dickcissel,  154. 
Disintegration,  186-88. 
Dock,  yellow,  35,  36. 
Dogs,  114;  their  capacity  for  loving, 

205;    companionship,    205,    206; 

enjoyments  and  interests,  206. 
Dove,  mourning,  nest,  14. 
Ducks,  migrating,  5. 

Earth,  the,  a  celestial  body,  243; 
rotation,  255;  growth,  258-61; 
beauty  and  wonder  of,  312,  313. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  17,  113; 
quoted,  27,  28,  215,  224,  235,  246, 
248,  250,  307,  308;  and  natural 
history,  221,  222;  a  poet,  prophet, 
and  critic,  not  a  purely  literary 
man;  his  "Brahma,"  250. 

Energy,  2G4,  322. 

Epictetus,  321. 

Everlasting,  early,  210-13. 

Evolution,  a  hard  road  to  travel, 
273;  variation  the  main  factor, 
273,  274;  speed,  276,  277;  belief 
in,  277;  and  ethics,  281-84;  the 
push  of  development,  284,  285; 
order  of  development,  286-88. 

Eyes,  51. 

Fabre,  Jean  Henri,  on  a  caterpillar 
building  its  cocoon,  48,  49;  his 
studies  in  insect  behavior,  129- 
39,  202-04. 

Fear,  328. 

Fern,  walking,  39. 

Finch,  purple,  eating  cherry-blos- 
soms, 25,  26. 

Fishes,  deep-sea,  270-72. 

Flicker,  or  high-hole,  drumming,  19; 
call,  19,  20;  nesting,  20, 194;  color- 
ation, 21. 

Flycatcher,  crested,  168. 

Flycatcher,  olive-sided,  25. 

Fog,  297-99. 

Fossil,  a,  ISl. 


Fox.  red,  31,  32,  197;  tracks,  209; 
two  tame  foxes,  292,  293. 

Geology,  pleasures  of,  177-83. 

Georgia,  granite  in,  178-80. 

Germany,  323. 

Glaciers,  local,  182. 

God,  and  Nature,  241,  247-51;  and 
evil,  248,  249. 

Goldfinch,  152;  nest,  105-07;  a  cu- 
rious experience  with  nest  and 
young,  106,  107. 

Granite,  Northern  and  Southern, 
178-80. 

Grass,  seed-dispersal,  37,  38. 

Grosbeak,  rose-breasted,  11;  with 
young,  109. 

Grouse,  ruffed,  155. 

Hawk,  marsh,  163,  164. 

Hawk,  pigeon,  165. 

Hawk,  red-tailed,  163,  164. 

Hawk,  sparrow,  165,  166. 

Hen-hawk,  163,  164. 

Heredity,  329,  330. 

High-hole.  See  Flicker. 

Historj%  sequence  of  events  in,  309, 

310. 
Hummingbird,    ruby-throated,    16, 

17,  75. 
Humphrey,  Miss  Grace,  quoted,  47« 

48. 
Huxley,  Thomas  H.,  quoted,  327. 

Ibis,  wood,  294,  295. 

Impulse,  320,  321. 

Insects,  mind  in,  129-39,  204;  our 

interest  in  books  on,  201-03. 
Interesting,  the,  196. 

Jay,  blue,  migrating,  18,  19;  egging 

expeditions,  67. 
Junco,  with  nests,  108,  109. 

Kingbird,  flight,  25;  nest,  102,  103, 
106;  fly-catching,  102,  103,  195; 
contrasted  with  the  crested  fly- 
catcher, 168. 

Kinglet,  ruby-crowned,  6. 

Language,  327.  328. 
Lark,  prairie  horned,  154. 
Leaders,  324. 


834 


INDEX 


Leaf-roller,  138. 

Leaves,  a  large  crop  of,  40. 

Life,  infinitely  various,  158;  hand 
in  hand  with  death,  186,  187;  be- 
ginnings, 189,  190;  development, 
259,  260;  and  chemical  aflfinity, 
261,  262;  the  physico-chemical 
and  psychic  explanations  of,  269, 
270;  a  battle  and  a  festival,  280; 
the  fire  of,  284;  incalculable  and 
mvsterious,  285,  286;  a  fluid, 
329. 

Light,  invisible,  256. 

Lightning,  freaks  of,  42-44,  124. 

Literature  and  science,  235;  and 
reality,  235-40. 

Logic,  321. 

Longevity,  296,  297. 

Loosestrife,  purple,  38. 

Loveman,  Robert,  223. 

Lynx,  Canada,  cry,  125-28. 

Man,  and  the  balance  of  nature, 
157;  a  generalized  form  of  life, 
162,  163;  origin,  243,  246,  247;  a 
part  of  nature,  249-51;  less  reli- 
gious and  artistic,  more  practical 
and  scientific,  than  formerly,  257, 
258;  evolution,  260,  274-76;  the 
price  he  pays  for  his  gift  of  rea- 
son, 291,  292;  his  relation  to  na- 
ture, 304-06;  progress  of,  309, 
310;  nature's  indifference  toward, 
316-18. 

Micro-organisms,  constructive  and 
destructive,  186-90. 

Might,  and  right,  280-84. 

Milton,  John,  233. 

Mind,  and  the  brain,  266-68. 

Molecular  action,  256,  257. 

Molecules,  263. 

IMonarchical  government,  321,  322. 

Moth,  Halictus,  139. 

Moths,  cocoons,  50. 

Motion,  relativity  of,  264,  265. 

Mt.  Rubidoux,  180. 

Mouse,  meadow,  41,  115. 

Muscles,  287. 

Muskrat,  carrying  dry  leaves,  116. 

Natural  history,  interesting  and  un- 
interesting, 193;  and  the  poets, 
221-23. 


Nature,  our  interest  in,  27-30,  121, 
122;  uniformity  and  capricious- 
ness,  40,  42;  complete  in  small 
things,  112,  113;  "jokes"  of,  113, 
114,  117;  the  open  book  of,  121; 
surprises  of,  124 ;  ebb  and  flow  in, 
152-57;  man  and  the  balance  of, 
157;  the  approach  to,  176;  near 
home,  213-18;  relation  to  God, 
241.  242,  247-51;  change  of  atti- 
tude toward,  244-46;  and  science, 
252,  253;  of  things,  301,  302;  all- 
inclusive,  303;  man's  relation  to, 
304-06;  no  good  or  bad  in,  306; 
shortcomings  and  excesses,  308, 
309;  sequence  of  events  in,  309, 
310;  her  solicitude  for  the  individ- 
ual, 314,  315;  her  apparent  indif- 
ference toward  man,  316-18;  push- 
ing blindly,  318,  319. 

Nature  of  things,  301,  302, 

Need,  284,  285. 

Night,  and  day,  324-26. 

Nitrogen,  185,  262,  263. 

Nuthatch,  red-breasted,  a  winter 
guest,  22-24,  207,  208. 

Nuthatch,  white-breasted,  208;  col- 
oration and  habits,  216,  217. 

Nuthatches,  10,  160;  manners,  23, 
207;  notes,  24,  207. 

Ocean,  the,  265. 

Oriole,  Baltimore,  9,  17. 

Osborn,  Henry  Fairfield,  his  Men 

of  the  Old  Stone  Age,  281,  283. 
Oven-bird,  with  nest  and  young, 

65. 
Oxygen,  263. 

Peckham,   George   and   Elizabeth, 

129. 
Pelican,  brown,  113,  114. 
Pennsylvania,  182,  183. 
Perry,  Bliss,  his  Life   of   Whitman, 

225-27. 
Pewee,  wood,  nest,  105,  167;  con- 
trasted with  the  phcebe,  166,  167; 

notes,  166. 
Phoebe,  and  wren,  79;  contrasted 

with  the  wood  pewee,  166,  167; 

notes,  166;  nest,  167. 
Photography,    and    painting,    236, 

238. 


335 


INDEX 


Physics,  reveals  the  spiritual  side 

of  matter,  191,  192. 
Pigeon,  passenger,  migrating  armies, 

3-5;  last  seen,  4. 
Poets,  and  nature,  221-23. 
Psychic  life,  origin  of,  266. 
Puffin,  113. 
Puma,  cry,  126. 

Quail,  or  bob-white,  154,  155. 

Rabbit,  156. 

Raccoon,  30,  197;  rooting  stones, 
295. 

Raspberry,  black,  39. 

Realism,  237-40. 

Reason,  266,  324,  327. 

Redpoll,  yellow.    See  Warbler,  yel- 
low palm. 

Redstart,  15;  gymnastics,  8,  9. 

Rehgion,  and  science,  242,  243 ;  ten- 
dency and  source,  320. 

Reproduction,  277,  278. 

Right,  and  might,  280-84;  and 
wrong,  282. 

Riverside,  Cal.,  180. 

Robin,  17,  98,  280;  a  quarrel  with 
bluebirds,  66,  67;  attacking  a  jay, 
67 ;  use  of  white  materials  in  nest, 
71. 

Rodents,  diversity  amid  unity 
among,  161,  162. 

Roosevelt,  Theodore,  297. 

St.  Augustine,  327. 

St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  88. 

St.  John's  River,  Florida,  274. 

Sapsucker,  yellow-bellied,  drum- 
ming, 97. 

Science,  pleasure  in,  174-77;  and 
literatvu-e,  235;  and  rehgion,  242, 
243;  and  love  of  nature,  252,  253. 

Sea-robin,  294. 

Sea  squirt,  273. 

Seals,  intelligence,  293,  294. 

Seeds,  various  methods  of  dispersal, 
33-39. 

Seeing,  327. 

Seton,  Ernest  Thompson,  31. 

Skunk,  31,  156. 

Snake,  garter,  amusing  behavior, 
116,  117. 

Snow,  tracks  in,  209,  242. 


Sparks,  322. 

Sparrow,  chipping,  nest,  106;  con- 
trasted with  the  field  sparrow, 
172,  173;  song,  172;  nest-building, 
194. 

Sparrow,  EngUsh,  280. 

Sparrow,  field,  or  btish  sparrow,  con- 
trasted with  the  chipping  spar- 
row, 172,  173;  song,  172,  173; 
nest,  173. 

Sparrow,  fox,  18;  strange  conduct 
of  a  bird  in  an  aviary,  86-88. 

Sparrow,  Savannah,  60. 

Sparrow,  song,  7,  92,  93;  nests,  55^- 
58,  104;  a  fussy  mother,  56-58; 
contrasted  with  the  vesper  spar- 
row, 168-72;  songs,  169-71,  289; 
nest,  172. 

Sparrow,  vesper,  singing,  97;  con- 
trasted with  the  song  sparrow, 
168-72;  song,  171;  nest,  171,  172. 

Sparrow,  white-crowned,  18. 

Sparrow,  white-throated,  18. 

Spider,  jumping,  51. 

Spiders,  eyes,  51;  cocoons  and  egga, 
51,  52;  wisdom  and  stupidity,  139. 

Spring,  a  backward,  14-17. 

Squirrel,  flying,  156. 

Squirrel,  gray,  156,  159,  195. 

Squirrel,  red,  156,  157, 159, 195, 197, 
198. 

Stone  Mountain,  179. 

Stork,  91. 

Style,  233-35. 

Swallow,  barn,  75;  pleasing  ways, 
198,  199;  nesting-habits,  199, 200; 
notes,  199,  200;  and  the  cat,  201; 
feeding  young,  201. 
Swallow,  cliff,  194. 
Swans,  in  flight,  6. 
Symonds,  John  Addington,  on  Whit- 
man, 227. 

Tanager,  scarlet,  10,  11,  55;  song, 

93;  rival  singers,  100. 
Temple,  Sir  WiUiam,  296. 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  quoted,  7,  241, 

314. 
Tertiary  period,  261. 
Thoreau,    Henry   D.,   his   Journal, 

193;  his  description  of  the  battle 

of  the  ants,  193. 
Thorn,  red,  39,  40. 


336 


INDEX 


Thrush,  hermit,  110. 

Thrush,  wood,  a  pair  and  their  nest, 

68-71 ;  young  leaving  nest,  74,  75. 
Time,  future,  253. 
Tody,  113. 
Tracks,  in  snow,  209,  242;  of  the 

Eternal,  242. 
Trowbridge,  John  Townsend,  167, 

222. 
Truth,  326,  327. 

Universe,  the,  great  movements, 
311;  vast  spaces,  311,  312. 

Variation,  273,  274,  278,  279. 

Vireo,  red-eyed,  feeding-habits,  9; 
song,  98;  and  nest,  104,  105. 

Vireo,  yellow-throated,  nest,  71,  72. 

Vireos,  nests,  71,  105. 

Virgil,  233. 

Vital  force,  188,  189. 

VitaUsm,  284. 

Vulture,  turkey.  See  Buzzard,  tur- 
key. 

War,  the  world,  322-24. 
Warbler,  bay-breasted,  15. 
Warbler,  Biackburnian,  10,  15. 
Warbler,  black-poll,  song,  7. 
Warbler,  Canadian,  12,  15. 
Warbler,  golden-winged,  a  pair  and 

their  nest,  58-60. 
Warbler,  Kentucky,  feeding-habits, 

9- 

Warbler,  magnolia,  16. 

Warbler,  myrtle,  9,  11,  16. 

Warbler,  Wilson's,  9. 

Warbler,  yellow  palm,  or  yellow  red- 
poll, 1,  11. 

Warblers,  effects  of  a  cold  spring 
upon,  15-17;  migration  wave  of, 
21;  the  May  visitation,  54,  55. 


Wasp,  Ammophila,  136. 

Wasp,  Cerceris,  136. 

Wasp,  Sphex,  136,  204. 

Wasps,  intelligence  of,  131-36,  138, 
203,  204;  bluffing  of  the  male,  290, 
291. 

Water,  circuit  of,  299,  300. 

Water-thrush,  northern,  6. 

Waxwing,  cedar,  96;  nesting,  104, 
105. 

Weasel,  155,  279,  280. 

West  Virginia,  182. 

Whirlwinds,  112. 

Whitman,  Walt,  222,  255;  quoted, 
29,  94,  226,  229,  230,  254,  317, 
318;  Bliss  Perry's  biography,  225- 
27;  his  main  characteristics,  225- 
28;  compared  with  Wordsworth, 
228-32. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  226. 

Woodchuck,  30,  156,  158,  194,  197. 

Woodpecker,  downy,  24,  50,  160, 
208. 

Woodpecker,  yellow-bellied.  See 
Sapsucker. 

Woodpeckers,  drumming,  97. 

Wordsworth,  WilUam,  compared 
with  Walt  Whitman,  228-32; 
quoted,  245,  246,  307;  attitude 
toward  Nature,  245. 

Wren,  house,  young  leaving  nest, 
75;  restless  energy,  77,  78;  songs 
and  other  notes,  77-79 ;  cock  nests, 
78,  83,  86,  117;  hostiUty  of  other 
birds  towards,  79;    quarrel  with 
bluebirds,  80-82;  sham  battles, 
83,  84;  nesting,  84-86;   a  tame 
pair,  85,  86,  88. 
Wren,  marsh,  cock  nests,  117. 
Wren,  winter,  song,  78,  79. 
Writing,  the  secret  of  good,  223, 224, 
240. 


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